


"Falling in Love" Makes it Sound So Effortless

by ceterisparibus



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Crack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kinda, Like not really but tbh kinda, Mutual Pining, Pining, Power Swap, Sexual Content, Sexual Miscommunication, Sickfic, Whump, but also arguing and stuff, but they have to earn it, eventually, figuring out how to communicate, seriously this is crack, whoops, whoops yah there's whump now, yeah this got more complicated
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24878443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceterisparibus/pseuds/ceterisparibus
Summary: "...and now she was coming to realize that they were two people with very abrasive personalities trapped in a very small office with only Foggy to mediate."Karedevil bingo prompts twisted into a semi-cohesive story.
Relationships: Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Comments: 153
Kudos: 129
Collections: Karedevil Bingo





	1. Accidental Hero

**Author's Note:**

> whoops, someone put some angst in my crackfic.
> 
> For the "Accidental Hero" slot on my bingo card.

Karen

Karen didn’t like to think of herself as naïve. So she hadn’t expected that everything would be smooth sailing just because they rebuilt the office of Nelson and Murdock (and Page). They all still had serious issues to work through. But she figured it wouldn’t be _that_ bad. Matt had finally (mostly) accepted the Importance Of Teamwork, and Karen had (mostly) forgiven him for all his secrets (she was trying to, at least) and Foggy had (mostly) stopped singing terrible showtunes and distracting everyone from work.

But even if things weren’t that _bad_ , they weren’t exactly _good_. Not for Karen, anyway. Not the way she’d hoped.

The problem, for her, was Matt. And for Matt, the problem was apparently her. Because they just couldn’t stop sniping at each other over the stupidest little things. Usually she’d bring up some idea about how to crack a case, and he’d shoot it down for whatever reason (usually with a dollop of hypocrisy or condescension or both), and she’d fire back, and it would escalate from there.

So now, Karen left work most days feeling both pissed off at him _and_ really sad for the fact that, even though he was _alive_ again, they hadn’t gotten back what they’d lost together. And because their lost friendship was its own wound, separate and distinct from the wound of their lost romance, it hurt even worse. She could feel her own tension ratcheting up tighter and tighter with each passing day.

In the old days, Matt would’ve tried to appease her with a cup of coffee and a small smile or something. But now he was retreating into his brittle shell. Why, because she’d rejected him and hadn’t come falling back into his arms the second he decided to put an ounce of effort into being a functional human being? Or maybe something else was bothering him. She had no idea, because he wasn’t talking about it.

Maybe she shouldn’t be so shocked. They just…had so much baggage still, and they hadn’t _actually_ worked through any of it. Add to that the fact that they had finally stopped play-acting with each other (she acting sweet and innocent even when she didn’t feel it, he acting all mild-mannered and chivalrous even when he _definitely_ didn’t feel it), and now she was coming to realize that they were two people with _very_ abrasive personalities trapped in a very small office with only Foggy to mediate.

And Foggy inevitably tapped out by lunch. He’d also started muttering, about every other day, about unresolved sexual tension. Which inevitably caused Matt to vanish into his office and not emerge for the rest of the day. To be fair, Karen could acknowledge that his tactic at least prevented other arguments from sparking up. But it also made the whole office feel lonely and sad.

Long story short: the situation at Nelson, Murdock and Page was not sustainable, and Karen had only Matt and herself to blame.

One average Tuesday, Foggy finally shoved them both unceremoniously from the office with orders to go print about a thousand pages of depositions and exhibits because their printer was, yet again, broken. It wasn’t a two-person job, so Karen could only assume that Foggy thought she and Matt would miraculously reconcile on a _printing_ expedition. Or maybe Foggy was just desperate enough to try anything. It would’ve been almost cute if it weren’t so heartbreaking.

Karen sighed loudly. “Guess we’d better go, then.”

Matt just nodded, lips pinched so tightly closed that it looked like he was trying to stop someone from forcing him to swallow a cyanide pill. Obviously, he wasn’t any more pleased than she was that they’d be stuck together for the next hour or so.

Still, no point in starting a three-way fight with Foggy. Pocketing the flashdrive holding the documents they needed, Karen grabbed her keys and headed out the door. Matt followed, wordless, even his footsteps nearly silent.

Neither of them spoke all the way to the office supply store. She didn’t have to announce sidewalk edges or light changes or anything like she used to think she had to, and he wasn’t bothering to flirt. She told herself firmly that she didn’t wish he would.

They reached the store. She quickened her steps to grab the door, not wanting to give him the chance to open it for her, or to _not_ open it for her, since she knew her brain would bounce back and forth between feminism and the fact that the old Matt would absolutely have opened it for her, and she really didn’t need to spend that much energy overthinking a _door_. They found customer service, handed over the flashdrive, and settled in to wait while the printer started printing. It was nicer than their printer (a depressingly low bar) so it spat out pages at a steady rate, but there were literally _so many pages_.

Matt’s fingers flexed, tightening and loosening and tightening his grip on his cane. His prop. He cleared his throat. “So.”

“We don’t have to do this,” she said quickly. (By _this_ , she meant _talking_.)

He got the hint, ducking his head with his brows drawing together over his sunglasses, giving him that intense look that she’d found so very attractive not that long ago.

Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on him. But he could read her body language, which somehow felt even _more_ invasive with this icy chill between them, which meant he knew she didn’t want conversation, knew she didn’t want to be here. But of course he’d tried anyway.

Karen felt a stab of guilt. Maybe she should at least hear what he had to say. She tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sorry. Um, what were you saying?”

“Never mind,” he said.

Yep, there he was again, unilaterally making all the decisions. (Never mind the fact that she’d done the very same thing when she shut him down a second ago.)

They were two disasters.

And they were left standing in prickly silence until an awkward customer service employee came up, apparently noticed the obvious tension, and nervously informed them that their printing was done if they wanted to collect their papers. At which point they realized that they’d forgotten, when Foggy sent them on this ill-advised mission, to bring anything with which to carry all the papers.

“Those?” Matt suggested quietly, pointing at some cheap plastic file folders that were _probably_ within the firm’s budget.

Karen grimaced. The plastic folders were all too-bright shades of primary colors. Not that he’d know. “Sure,” she muttered. “Why the hell not?”

They spent the next ten minutes figuring out how many documents would fit in a single folder and trying not to wince at the extra expense, miniscule though it was. Then they divided the folders between them (they were a bit heavier than Karen had expected, and slightly warm from the still-hot pages pressed inside) and gratefully made their way out of the store.

The wind ruffled Karen’s hair. She tried to extend an olive branch. “Mission accomplished?”

Matt’s lips quirked in the tiniest imitation of a smile. “Don’t speak too soon.”

Snorting, she led (or pretended to lead) him into a crosswalk. “We’re ten minutes from the office, Matt. What could happen?”

To her dismay, his head tilted sharply and he frowned, looking confused and sharply alarmed. “Well—” A second later, he cut himself off and grabbed her, his cane who-knew-where, grabbing her wrist with one hand and wrapping his other arm around her waist.

“Matt—” Before she could get out more than one syllable, he jerked her to the side and they both went down. The folders and their paper contents went everywhere, thrown into the air as if by a tornado. Karen and Matt skidded on the pavement, he slightly on top of her—shielding her with his body as something went screaming past them. Lots of somethings, actually. Lifting her head, she caught sight of three motorcycles blazing past them.

The second motorcycle went straight into the storm of papers and swerved wildly into the path of the third. They crashed together, knocking dull gray cannisters loose to roll on the street where they rolled around and clanked into each other.

Until a fourth motorcycle came screeching by, clipping one of the cannisters and popping it open. Greenish goo exploded from the canister and Karen squeezed her eyes shut as a streak of it landed across her forehead.

People were yelling, screaming, calling for the police. Karen couldn’t see much of the wreckage, but she saw smoke and bits of charred paper swirling through the air. Swearing under her breath, she tried to push herself up, but Matt was still plastered over her. She could feel his heavy breaths from where his chest was pressed against her right shoulder blade.

She gave him five more seconds and, when nothing new seemed to be a threat, hissed: “ _Matt_.”

He startled slightly. “Sorry. Sorry, uh…” He shifted, then rolled off her with a low groan. She got to her knees and reached up a hand to wipe at the goo on her forehead, only for his hand to shoot out and lock around her wrist. “Don’t touch that!”

“Matt, it’s just…” She trailed off. She didn’t know _what_ it was. But it wasn’t hurting or anything. And she could see it splashed across his cheek, but he didn’t seem to be in pain either, and she figured that if anything was sketchy about this stuff, he of all people would be able to tell.

“We don’t know _what_ it is,” he growled and, all right, it made sense that he’d be more panicky about this, given his history with vehicular accidents and unidentified substances. Jerking his suit jacket off, he used the sleeve to gently and meticulously clean her forehead.

But the shaky bystanders started converging before he could get started on his own face. Pulling her to her feet, Matt wrapped her hand around his arm. “Pretend to lead me,” he ordered in her ear. “We need to get out of here before there’s a scene.”

“Your cane—”

“I’ve got backups. Karen, _go_.”

She didn’t know what his hurry was, but this wasn’t the time or place for an interrogation. Besides, she still trusted him even if she didn’t always like him. They scurried back onto the sidewalk, ducking into the crowd and shouldering past people trying to ask if they were okay, and didn’t slow down until they were falling into the doorway of their office.

“Guys?” That was Foggy coming into the lobby. “What took you so—what is _that?_ ”

“We don’t know,” Matt said tersely, _finally_ taking the time to rub at his own forehead. “There were…motorcycles? An accident of some kind. Something made them crash.”

Karen ducked her head, feeling her cheeks heat up at the realization that he apparently didn’t know that _they_ had caused the accident.

“Something spilled out,” Matt went on. “It smells…I don’t know. Not normal. Not good.”

Foggy leaned in to inspect the bit of goo still smeared on his cheek. “And the last thing you need is more chemical reactions. I’ll check the news.”

“They won’t know anything yet,” Matt pointed out in that dismissive tone of voice.

“You don’t know that,” Karen muttered under her breath.

His head twitched in her direction, but he didn’t say anything to that, just stood still as Foggy pulled out his phone, swiping his phone across the screen.

“Oh,” Foggy said a second later. “Yeah, no news about what that stuff was or who the motorcycle people were, except that those dudes were _bad_. Not supervillain-bad, more like evil mooks, but still. The NYPD’s been chasing them all the way from Brooklyn, but they were finally apprehended thanks to the crash.” He lowered the phone. “Which means I’m in the presence of two heroes.”

Karen’s eyebrows shot up and Matt was mirroring her expression. “Heroes?” she echoed dubiously.

Foggy glanced between the two of them. “Unfortunately.”

Matt leaned forward a little, frowning. “Unfortunately?”

Foggy grimaced exaggeratedly. “Buddy, do I really need to remind you what happened the last time your heroism exposed you to a mysterious substance?”

“This was nothing like that,” Matt said firmly.

Karen rolled her eyes. “Could you _please_ stop acting like you have secret knowledge all the time.”

Matt looked indignant. “I’m just saying, there’s no reason to assume—”

“Foggy was _joking_ ,” Karen shot back, and just like that they were locked in their third argument of the day.

Foggy heaved a disappointed sigh. “And they didn’t even bring back the papers,” he muttered as he retreated into his office.


	2. You're Not Gonna Kiss Me

Foggy

He was surprised when there was a tap on the doorway a few hours later and he looked up to see Matt standing there almost furtively, arms folded. Hair messed up from a day of running his fingers through it, not to mention from apparently narrowly avoiding death earlier. Maybe he had a question about a case? But he usually sent those via email if he and Karen had been arguing, since he preferred to stifle his feelings by hiding in his own office.

“What’s up?” Foggy asked, leaning back in his chair and trying to sound casual.

Matt wet his lips. “I think…” He paused and wet his lips again. “I think I’m gonna take the day.”

Foggy blinked, certain he hadn’t heard right. “What?”

“I’m…I’m not…” Matt frowned, like the words in his head were foreign. “I’m not feeling well.”

 _This_ from the guy who regularly came into work with concussions and stab wounds and who knew what else. Foggy shot to his feet. “It was that goo, I knew it! You’ve gotta go to a hospital—”

“It’s not that,” Matt said dismissively, but he started leaning against the doorframe like he was tired or off-balance or something. “I’m just…having trouble focusing, I think.”

“Hmm. Focusing as in _thinking_ , or focusing as in…” Foggy mimed using the Force.

Matt’s eyebrows drew together. “What?”

Foggy stopped miming. “Sensing.”

“Oh.” Matt rubbed at his forehead, pinching skin between his thumb and forefinger. “Sensing, yeah. I can’t…I dunno. Maybe it’s a migraine, but it doesn’t _hurt_ , it just…” He shrugged weakly. “Feels like I’m missing things.”

“But you don’t have to track all that right now,” Foggy pointed out, a little miffed. Lawyering didn’t require fancy senses. They weren’t even meeting any clients or witnesses today, so it wasn’t like Matt could go around listening helpfully to heartbeats.

“I know,” Matt said quietly, head lowered like he was even more frustrated with himself than Foggy was. “I just…I don’t…like it.”

Oh. Huh. Matt was really going for it with this whole vulnerability thing. Which probably meant that whatever was happening right now was actually really serious. Physically or…maybe psychologically? After all, this whole thing could be taking him back to that awful time right after Midland Circle. Triggers could be anything. “Sorry, man,” Foggy said, feeling like his apology was coming a bit too late. Still, better late than never. “Yeah, take the day, do whatever you have to.”

“Thanks.” Matt took a second as if to brace himself before pushing off the doorway.

Foggy took a hurried step closer. “Are you _sure_ this isn’t related to that chemical whatever?”

“Well, Karen’s fine,” Matt muttered, a new bitter edge to his voice.

Inspiration struck. “About that,” Foggy said, lowering his voice. If Matt was feeling honest enough to ask to go home, maybe Foggy could get him to open up just a little about why he and Karen couldn’t go a single hour without one of them pissing the other off. (Was it insensitive to badger him about it at a time like this? Maybe. But they had an office to run, and it was currently…barely running. Which made it practically Foggy’s legal obligation to take advantage of this rare and probably fleeting opportunity.)

Matt stiffened slightly. “About what?”

Okay, maybe the opportunity had already fleeted. Fled. But. Foggy had to try. “Karen. Or, more specifically, you and Karen. Or, more specifically still, you and Karen and _whatever got stuck up both of your butts_.”

Matt’s lips formed a small _o_ of surprise. And probably also offense.

“I mean, seriously. Would you just kiss her already?”

“ _What?_ ” Matt squawked, and instantly lowered his voice. “Are you insane?”

Foggy shrugged. “Well, buddy, you’re not gonna kiss me, so…”

“What makes you think I have to kiss anyone?” Matt retorted hotly.

“Do I really have to explain the wild chemistry currently suffocating this office?”

“We’re adults,” Matt said through a tightened jaw. “Just because there might be…tension…doesn’t mean we have to act on it.”

Foggy stared at him. “But why wouldn’t you _want_ to? You both wanted to last time, if memory serves. In fact, I think you’d agree with me when I say that you both _really_ wanted to—”

“I get it,” Matt cut in. “It’s not like that. Not this time.”

“I can’t hear your heartbeat,” Foggy began leadingly, “but—”

“I’m not lying! I almost wish I was, but—” He snapped his mouth shut too late.

Foggy took a deep breath.

“Don’t,” Matt warned.

Foggy pounced. “So you _do_ want her back!”

“Would you _keep it down?_ ” Matt hissed, head twitching towards Karen’s office. “She’s amazing, all right? But it won’t work, not between us, not ever again. I blew it.”

“So apologize.”

“I _did_ ,” he said tersely. “You were there.”

Foggy gathered his patience. “Matt. Buddy. Partner. My dear, dear friend. My absolute ray of sullen sunshine. That was, like, a third of an apology and I’m still half-convinced that you only said it because you wanted us to agree to let you kill Fisk.”

Matt flinched.

Okay, that was probably too harsh. “Sorry. Motion to strike that from the record?” Foggy leaned in, lowering his voice. “It was a good apology, I’m sorry for saying it wasn’t. And in case you’re privately angsting about me too, rest assured that I completely accepted it. But…I think you’re just gonna have to give Karen a bit more.”

“Like what?” Matt asked helplessly.

“…I dunno. Grovel, maybe?”

Matt’s lip curled slightly. “Grovel.”

“I’m just saying, flowers are too cliché.”

“You’re not helpful.”

Foggy threw up his hands. “Excuse you, I am _very_ helpful. Your loss if you don’t take my advice.”

“Yeah, well.” Matt ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. “I’ll figure something out when everything stops…” He waved his hand vaguely through the air. “Feeling off.”

~

Matt had barely left when Karen came in. Foggy couldn’t help wondering if maybe Karen had been lurking, listening, and waiting for her chance to move in.

“Something wrong?” Foggy asked innocently, because he was _not_ assuming anything, nope.

Standing in the doorway to his office, she folded her arms across her chest. The necklace she was wearing—her mother’s—glinted. “That’s what I was going to ask you, actually. Is something wrong with Matt?”

“You know,” Foggy remarked, “if you’d barged in here like two seconds earlier, you could’ve asked him yourself.”

“And he would’ve told me anything?” she scoffed.

Well aware that just because someone knew Matt was Daredevil didn’t mean Matt would start actually opening up to them, Foggy didn’t really have a rebuttal. He just shrugged.

“Yeah,” Karen muttered. “That’s what I thought.” And then she just…leaned against the doorway, sighing and staring up at the ceiling.

She and Matt were so alike that sometimes it was actually a tiny bit scary.

“Foggy,” she began suddenly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

“Yeah?”

“Matt isn’t—well. He’s not the same as he was when you guys first met, right?”

Foggy raised his eyebrows incredulously. “I sincerely hope that none of us are the same as we were ten years ago.”

“No, I mean, like…how he treats you. How he treats you is different now, right? Now that you know about Daredevil, I mean.”

Foggy scratched at his jaw, unsure where she was going with this. “He’s more overtly overprotective, I guess…?”

Karen sighed again, like he was being purposefully stubborn.

Foggy mustered his patience yet again. “Look. You’re obviously fishing for something, but I don't know what it is, so I don’t know how to help you get there. Which means it’s kinda unfair for you to get mad at me about it.”

“I’m not—” Breaking off, she shook her head. “It’s not you I’m mad at.”

“Then maybe you should try talking to the person you’re _actually_ mad at.”

She lowered her gaze to glare at him. He kind of wished she’d go back to trying to intimidate the ceiling.

Resigning himself to his new role of pre-marital counselor or whatever, Foggy leaned pointedly back in his chair. “Fine, go on. Tell me what’s up.”

And just like that, the glare softened into something sad and a little bit desperate. Foggy hated the sight of it, especially on her. When she spoke, it was quiet and hushed, like she’d never gotten up the courage to say it out loud before. “He used to be my best friend.”

Oh. Foggy nodded once and, against all instinct to the contrary, kept his mouth shut. Karen was less likely to spook if he started talking than Matt was, but still.

“Like…” She drifted further into the office, now leaning against the back of the chair in front of Foggy’s desk with her hands twisted together. “Back before I knew about Daredevil and before he knew about…about what I’d done…we just had so much fun together. I mean, when he wasn’t disappearing on us. And it sounds dumb, but he treated me like I was so special.” She bit down hard on her lower lip and took a deep breath. “And now it’s like…was that all an act? No different than waving his cane around when he doesn’t need to?”

Yikes. That was…yikes. Foggy had wondered about that briefly, wondered whether his and Matt’s whole _friendship_ was part of Matt’s charade. But eventually he’d decided that, no, the only fake parts were Matt’s secrets and the fact that he didn’t literally need Foggy to guide him. Still, Foggy had only figured that out because he’d had _years_ of coaxing Matt out of his Catholic-orphanage-designed shell, years of play-arguing and actual-arguing and making up and buying each other cheesy Christmas presents and getting drunk and falling asleep at each other’s apartments even after they finally got their own places.

There was just no way Matt could fake all that.

But Karen and Matt hadn’t had that kind of foundation. No wonder she was questioning everything.

Karen flushed slightly at the prolonged silence. “You think I’m being stupid,” she mumbled.

“What, no,” Foggy protested. “I was _literally_ just thinking about how that makes sense. Like, I think you’re wrong,” he added quickly, lest there be any misunderstanding about that, “but it makes sense.”

She sniffed. “Yeah?” she asked, unable to totally disguise the hope in her voice.

“Yeah,” Foggy said earnestly. “Look, Karen, Matt’s good at keeping secrets. That doesn’t mean he’s good at lying.”

“He does a pretty good job pretending to be blind,” she muttered.

“He _is_ blind,” Foggy reminded her, and yeah, that was a thing he’d had to kind of re-learn after the whole post-ninja-revelation thing. “Okay, he doesn’t need the cane, but he _does_ need his screen-reader and his notes in braille and he still needs me to tell him what color his socks are.”

“He has labels for his socks, Foggy.”

“I occasionally mess with them, but that’s not the point. The point is, there are some things he can’t lie about. And liking a person is one of them. I mean, you should see him try sometime, it’s hilarious.”

A small smile ghosted around Karen’s lips. “Didn’t he try with that one client last week? The one who wouldn’t stop blaming literally anything and everything else for the mess he was in?”

“The system sucks,” Foggy said sagely, “but that doesn’t excuse punching that many people.” It _didn’t_. Matt only partially blamed the system for his vigilantism; he also took responsibility for the fact that he enjoyed it. And Matt had tried to act professional and all, but he’d clearly not been pleased to hear their would-be client playing the victim despite putting three people in the hospital in a drunken rage. “See what I mean? If Matt’s friends with you, it’s because he wants to be. Not part of an act.”

She squared her jaw. “And what does it say now that he and I can’t be friends? Maybe you’re right, Foggy. Maybe it used to be real, between us. But now…”

Foggy shrugged. “Now all your issues are exposed,” he said matter-of-factly. “Of course it’s gonna feel different between you two. And if you don’t like it, Karen, might I suggest that you _do something about it_.”

“What about him?” she asked shortly.

Foggy pointed a pencil at her. “We’re talking about you, not him. If _you_ don’t like how things are, figure out what you can do to change it. And might I suggest that you start with talking about it to the one person in this office who’s not _me_.”

Her lip curled. “And, what, beg to be friends again?”

Foggy sighed. “I guess that’s up to you.”

For a long time, she just stared at him. Then she pressed the heel of her palm to her temple. “I have a headache.”

“Maybe you should take the day?” Foggy suggested. She’d have time alone with her thoughts, and Foggy would get a long enough break from playing counselor to maybe actually write this stupid memo he was supposed to be working on. Win-win.

“Maybe,” she said absently, distractedly, looking up at the ceiling again. “I wish they’d keep it down up there.”

“…Who?”

“Can’t you hear that?”

Foggy listened politely, then shook his head. “I don’t hear anything but the dulcet tone of your voice.”

“Whatever stupid radio station’s on in the lobby upstairs…” Karen grimaced. “It’s killing my head.”

“Take the day,” Foggy encouraged. Not that he hoped anything would magically change just by dismissing Matt and Karen to their respective apartments.

But at least he could finally get some work done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foggy needs a raise.


	3. Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the flashback square on my Karedevil bingo.
> 
> Look. Those of you who've read my other stuff know I suck at description so WHY AM I WRITING A STORY WHERE THE MAIN PLOT ELEMENT REQUIRES DETAILED SENSORY DESCRIPTION. WHY.
> 
> (Because Matt and Karen are worth it, obviously.)
> 
> Also, I'm not sure the best way to go about this but: spoiler alert, see notes at the end regarding the appropriateness of one facet of this story.

Karen

Stuffing her things into her bag, Karen winced at the scrape of the zipper. Everything was so loud. The near-accident must’ve frazzled her more than she’d thought. It started happening ever since…ever since what happened in Vermont. Stress dialed her awareness up to twenty. Like everything was a threat.

Getting home was gonna be miserable.

Usually, on the rare times when she went home early, she’d skip taking a cab and enjoy the walk. Sometimes, if the sun was still up, she’d get her mace ready and take a different route, just keeping her eyes open for corner shops and things. Matt’s voice would be soft and affectionate in her ear, talking about how the city never stopped unfolding new secrets.

She shook her head sharply. She didn’t want his voice in her head.

Besides, there was no way she was exploring today. Taking one step outside the office was like stepping into a pressure cooker. Tires screeching, horns blaring, music clashing, people yelling. And the smells, the _smells_. Diesel and unwashed bodies and trash and food vendors and someone had walked by with too much floral perfume.

Karen breathed shallowly through her mouth. It occurred to her to wonder how Matt handled it every day. How he loved this city so faithfully when the assault of sound and stench had to be even worse to his heightened senses.

She shook her head again, annoyed with herself for feeling admiration, and walked faster.

Getting home was a relief, but she still felt jittery and over-stimulated. She kicked off her shoes first thing, and in seconds had shed everything else too. The pencil skirt was stiff and suffocating, and the less said about her bra, the better. She traded it all for her oldest, softest pair of cotton shorts and a thin sweatshirt. Sick day clothes that normally felt like being wrapped in a blanket. Today it still made her skin itch.

No. She was _fine_. She had too much to do to be anything other than fine.

Lifting her chin, she marched resolutely into her kitchen. (Actually, no. She took a step out of her bedroom and immediately doubled back for fluffy socks because the floor was cold and so hard that it felt like the tiny bones in her feet would break just from walking on it. But she eventually made it into her kitchen.)

Food. There was something inherently calming in the simple act of making herself dinner, so she concentrated on grabbing ingredients. No real plan on what to make, just going after anything that smelled good and avoiding anything that smelled bad or just…too strong. The apples she’d washed last night seemed like a safe option, so she set a few on a cutting board and got out a knife.

At that moment, a door opened and closed somewhere in the apartment above hers, and a delicious scent started seeping in from the hallway. Her neighbors must’ve gotten takeout. The aroma of Indian food wafted in. Not from the same restaurant where she’d taken Matt on their first date, but similar enough for the memories to start creeping out from the place in the back of her mind where she’d shoved them.

Gritting her teeth in annoyance, she lined up the knife—

But the scent was impossible to block out and then suddenly it was there all around her: the sweet, spicy, warm smell of curry, the most delicious curry she’d ever had, both because it was actually really good and because _everything_ about that night was special, seen permanently through rose-tinted glasses no matter how much the following days (weeks, _months_ ) soured just about everything else.

Matt had been right about one thing, at least. They’d gotten to keep that one night.

Karen’s eyes fell closed as she inhaled, tasting spices on her tongue, chasing the flashback of a more peaceful time like an idiot, and she bit her lip as if that could stifle the longing, and the next thing she knew, she was yelping in pain as the knife bit into the palm of her hand.

Swearing under her breath, she jerked the knife out, stomach flipping at the long, red slash in her skin. She’d been through worse and she’d seen _way_ worse on other people (namely, Matt—she would never forget the sight of him after the _Bulletin_ attack, limping around with a pair of _scissors_ stuck in him) but it was all extra alarming here in the kitchen, when she was just supposed to be making dinner, not braced for the blood currently running in thick rivulets across her palm.

Making a face, she turned on the sink, and—

The plumbing screeched in her ears, driving her shoulders up to her ears as she tried to block out the sound. She slammed down on the faucet, shutting the water off, blinking hard against the ringing in her ears and the bitter, tangy taste of blood on the back of her tongue.

Copper. Matt always said it tasted like copper.

Gagging, Karen spat into the sink, even though the saliva pooling in her mouth was decidedly non-bloody. So where was…?

Taste. No, it wasn’t taste. It was the _smell_. From her _hand_.

Karen stared at it in horror. It wasn’t that much blood, it _wasn’t_ , she shouldn’t be smelling that, what was _wrong_ with her?

She gagged again but fought back the rising nausea, fumbling instead for paper towels. She didn’t dare turn on the sink again, so she just blotted at the cut with a shaky hand. First aid kit, her first aid kit was in the bathroom. She hurried across her apartment, trying to ignore how loud her own footsteps were, and the fact that she was suddenly unnervingly aware of her own shaky breaths. Digging out her band-aids, she slapped three on the cut and called it good.

And then she went and sat on the couch. Because she just…needed a moment to calm down. This was like some weird version of a panic attack or…or something. Not only were her own inhales and exhales practically echoing around her head, but she could both _hear_ and _feel_ her heart—pounding in her ears, thudding in her chest.

Panic attack.

Right.

She clung to that conclusion, ignoring all logic to the contrary, until her breathing was mostly under control.

See? She was fine. Perfectly fine.

Until she heard a scream so loud that she reacted instinctively, driving her elbow into the back of the couch only to discover that no one had broken into her apartment just to scream in her ear. The scream was from…outside. Somewhere, in the city.

In the city.

She swallowed.

Oh.

Matt

That night, Matt still felt off. Not sick or anything and he didn’t actually have a migraine; he wasn’t even sure exactly how to describe it. But in addition to odd sensory fuzziness or, worse, _gaps_ , he felt like his body was anticipating something that his brain didn’t yet understand. It as unnerving to say the least.

But it was like he’d told Foggy so long ago. If he took a night off, people got hurt.

So he pulled on his black mask (Melvin was still out of commission and not having armor seemed like the least Matt could do in terms of penance for abandoning him to the FBI) and went out to stand on the roof in the cool night air where everything was…muffled. Like a snow day, but worse. He tilted his head this way and that, straining his senses, but straining to sense something that couldn’t be sensed was a sickening feeling. An ache started building in the base of his skull.

He thought he heard a scream, but by the time he swiveled to pinpoint it, it was gone.

No, not gone. But whoever needed help was off his radar. Which meant they wouldn’t get help, which meant he’d effectively left them to whatever horrors the city wanted to force upon them tonight.

Matt swallowed down the guilt; he’d have time to feel it later. For now, he needed a new plan. Clearly standing still would accomplish nothing. He’d have to seek out the people who needed help until he regained control of his senses.

So he backed up a few paces, then ran forward and jumped off the edge of the roof. It wasn’t until he landed one building over that he realized, with a swooping sensation in his stomach, that he’d accomplished this entirely by muscle memory.

Stopping, guts churning, he tentatively pushed his senses backwards and found that he could barely recognize the gap over which he’d just jumped. It was nothing more than emptiness in the middle of slightly-less-emptiness.

Matt should…probably go home. Wait this out.

But if he took a night off, people got hurt. Besides, he knew his city’s rooftops and back alleys almost as well as he knew his own apartment. He’d be fine.

(A small, sensible voice in the back of his brain that sounded suspiciously like Foggy wanted to know what he planned on doing once he _found_ someone in trouble. Matt didn’t have an answer, so he ignored the question.)

He just had to not overthink this. Trust that his body knew what it was doing even if he was losing control of his mind. (Stick’s derisive voice pointed out that the mind controlled the body. Matt ignored that, too.) Matt walked stubbornly to the edge of this next roof, and jumped. Overshot a bit out of nerves, but landed fine. He still couldn’t hear the sounds of trouble that he knew should be there, but maybe it was just a quiet night, maybe he wasn’t actually missing anything, maybe he wasn’t actually failing anyone.

Maybe.

He was concentrating so hard on regaining some sense of normalcy that the sudden, jolting vibrations up and down his right leg made him trip. Someone was calling his burner phone, which meant one of the people he loved was in trouble.

He reached for the phone even as he took another step.

And then, just for an instant—gone. Sound, scent, all of it—gone. World on fire blinked to nonexistence.

Matt stumbled along an edge, and then he felt emptiness underneath him, and then it was down, down, down, until he banged into a fire escape or something, but he couldn’t tell it was coming until it hit him, couldn’t even try to grab onto it before he was falling again, down, down, again until he collided with the edge of a dumpster with a loud _crack_ that even his non-functioning ears could hear.

Matt’s body slid off the dumpster and he landed with a pain-filled grunt on the filthy alleyway ground.

Still. All things considered, the pain was actually, surprisingly, not that bad.

No, the thing that was making his heart race were the vast clouds of nothingness in his world on fire. He lay perfectly still, not daring to move, trying not to think about how vulnerable he was lying there, straining his perception for the slightest hint of change.

There. His hearing was coming back, just a little. He thought. He didn’t actually know, but he couldn’t just lie there. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself…not to his feet, that was a little more than he could handle at the moment, but…upright, at least, and felt only a small twinge in his side.

There. Okay. There. He was okay. Well, there was a dull ache in his arm and his ribs felt tight and sore, but he’d honestly expected worse.

A muted buzzing made him jump. Right. The burner. Matt reached for it again, noting almost distantly that he was moving his right arm much more slowly than usual, and that stretching for the pocket of his pants caused that twinge again and did something funny to his breathing, something that made him have to freeze and hold his breath for a few seconds. But, again, it didn’t really _hurt_ , not that badly, so he wasn’t entirely sure what was going on.

He _was_ sure that whatever was going on with him was much less important than whatever had prompted one of the few people who had the number of his burner to call him on it in the middle of the night. Fishing the heavy phone out, he brought it up to his ear.

“Hello?” His voice sounded oddly breathy to his own ears, but, well, everything sounded odd right now. He was ignoring that.

“…Matt…” That was Karen’s voice, and she sounded…she sounded _awful_.

“Karen?” He sat up too fast, sucked in a breath that came a full second later than he’d expected, and slumped back down to the ground. The phone’s cool metal felt soothing on his flushed skin. “You okay?”

“Um.” It was hard to tell, between the static of the phone and the way he couldn’t really trust his ears at the moment, but it sounded like her voice was _trembling_. “I don’t—I don’t think so, no. I don’t—um. Are you close?”

“To your apartment?” He tipped his head back against the filthy ground, trying to listen, but all the landmarks he could usually pick up on were…dim, if not altogether beyond his reach. But he was steadfastly not thinking too much about that right now. Besides, if his memory served… “Yeah, yeah. I’m close. I think.”

“Okay,” she said, and for a second, he thought that was _all_ she’d say. But then: “Could you—I’m so sorry, I’m _really_ sorry, but could—could you maybe—” Her breathing hitched as if in a wince, a tiny sound that he barely caught even with the phone pressed tight against his ear. “Could you come over?”

His mouth was moving before his brain had caught up to it: “I’m on my way.”

“ _Thank you_.” The way she breathed out the words like a prayer was…something he was very unprepared for. It made it sound like he was her lifeline, and he knew she didn’t think that, knew she would in fact recoil at the mere _suggestion_ of it, just as surely as he knew that he, put in that position, would utterly fail her.

Still. He cleared his throat. “Give me, uh…” How was he supposed to get there without the world on fire to guide him?

“…Matt?” Her voice was tiny, like she was afraid he’d hung up.

“Sorry, just…” He trailed off again, blinking this time, because…because the “world on fire” was supposed to be a _metaphor_ , he only ever saw black, but now…now something, _something_ , was eating away at the blackness. Something soft, pale, backlit. What was the word?

Gray.

“Matt?”

“I’ll be right there,” he said automatically, and slammed the burner phone shut before he could do something to make her changer her mind about asking him for help. Something humiliating. Like scream.

Something was wrong, something was _seriously_ wrong. What was this, poison? A hallucination? Had he been drugged? Was he _dying_ , and this awful not-nothingness was the best he could hope for from heaven?

Holding his breath, he stayed perfectly still. The fall must’ve messed him up worse than he’d thought. He should call Claire, probably. Also Karen, and let her know that he would decidedly _not_ be dropping by tonight.

(Except that she needed him, and the thought of leaving her to deal with whatever was happening alone made his chest ache in a way that was utterly unrelated to slamming into a dumpster.)

So for now, he just waited, willing all of this to be some kind of…concussion-induced dream. He could deal with that. Maybe.

The gray had swallowed up all the black now, and more light was piercing through. A different color, though. What was that, yellow?

It reminded him a little of the sun.

It was smaller, though. And almost…dirtier. And it only lit up part of his field of vision ( _vision_ , that was…that was new, and different, and he did not like it), but there was a spark of it to the left…he swiveled his head. No, that was just a…a reflection. The light reflecting off of something. Broken glass, maybe. He turned slowly back towards the light, blinking, forcing it into focus, forcing the swirly halo to clear so he could…so he _see_ it for what it was.

A streetlight.

Matt swallowed hard.

A streetlight in his city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as a result of the goo, Matt temporarily regains his sight. There's a cracky in-story explanation for it, but it's mostly because I want him to be able to navigate without having to learn new techniques. I've had some significant eye problems including partial blindness so I can relate in a sense, but I've never been 100% blind, so please let me know if anything is offensive and I'll do what I can to adjust accordingly. However...this is mostly a crack fic and there's only so much I can change while still telling the story, so there is a "don't like, don't read" line somewhere.
> 
> Anyway. One of my least favorite things is eye doctor appointments and straining to see something that I literally cannot see, which I feel like is close to what Matt's going through here. So. I feel for the poor guy even as I make him suffer.


	4. Power Swap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my power swap square!!!

Matt

It should’ve taken about five minutes to reach Karen’s apartment.

It took half an hour.

There was no denying it: his heightened senses were gone, replaced with something he hadn’t had for over twenty years. He remembered sight, but remembering and _using_ were not the same thing. Now instead of having sound and heat to tell him when things were getting closer or further away, he had to watch shapes grow larger and smaller before his eyes.

What did Foggy call it? Always saying he was great at softball because he had impeccable…depth perception?

That.

Well, Matt hated it.

And he hated the darkness, the darkness that normally protected him and now made it even harder to know where he was in space. Then again, maybe it was a good thing. He wasn’t…he wasn’t really sure he could _handle_ the barrage of colors of New York right now. The odd flashes of neon from buildings (sharp green, crackling yellow, something _purple_ ) were distracting enough already.

But the worst part was having no idea what was behind him. He’d take about five steps or so, and already his skin would be crawling, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, because someone could be _right behind him_ and he’d have no _idea_.

Now, finally standing in front of what he was fairly certain was Karen’s apartment complex, holding one arm tightly against his side, he tried not to think about the fact that his friend needed him and he’d wasted so much time spinning in circles.

Matt only wasted a second more on hesitating before pulling off his mask (and wincing a little) and stuffing it in a pocket. The black-on-black-on-black of his shirt, pants, and boots might look suspicious, but climbing her fire escape in his state was out of the question. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d end up at the right window, even if he got up there without falling off. Besides, he was winded, definitely more winded than he should be. He’d done damage falling into the corner of that dumpster, even though his inability to breathe didn’t seem correctly correlated to the minimal pain he felt.

(Admittedly, it hurt worse now than it had thirty minutes ago. But he’d added that to the long and growing list of things he was trying not to think about.)

The stairs were murder on his ribs, but that wasn’t the priority right now. He reached her door (he hoped) and froze for a split second, instinctively. The last time he’d been here, she hadn’t exactly been happy with him. He felt unwelcome, uninvited, despite the fact that she was the one who’d called him.

He knocked. And waited.

After too long, he heard her voice, shaky: “Come in!”

He tried to turn the handle, found it locked. “Uh, Karen…”

Another too-long pause before: “Just—get in, Matt, please—”

His heart jumped up into his throat. “It’s locked,” he said awkwardly, raising his voice; he should’ve thought it was obvious, but—

“Matt, I—I really need—” Her voice caught.

And somehow that really gave him no qualms about picking her lock in three seconds. He burst into the place, tripped over nothing at the onslaught of light and explosive color in her apartment, and he clipped the wall with his shoulder when he underestimated the exact distance, but then he ended up skidding to a halt in front of…her kitchen, that was a kitchen, and she—

He blinked.

She was clutching the counter like she’d fall if she let go of it for one second, and she was beautiful.

Some of it he’d already known. He’d already known she was slender, athletic. He’d already known she was almost as tall as he was, with hair that curled just past her shoulders. He’d known that her skin was soft and that her lips were softer still.

But.

To _see_ it.

To see those wide eyes staring back at him— _blue_ , his mind supplied, but that was too dull a word to capture the brilliance there. To see her lips parted in…in some expression that he couldn’t yet identify by sight alone. To see the slight color in her cheeks— _blush_ , but he couldn’t tell if it was makeup or real, he couldn’t smell powder or feel the heat rising under her skin, but he knew that he very much liked how it looked. To see the thin, silvery sweatshirt draping the delicate curves of her body that he’d never let himself touch, not on purpose anyway, although it was hard to avoid that kind of thing when he was throwing himself over her to protect her from gunfire or they were trapped together in a crypt or….

He cleared his throat. “Uh,” he managed, voice dry.

“Matt,” she said, and he quickly looked back at her face. Her mouth first, and then he got stuck staring at her eyes again, wide and…strangely helpless.

Karen was not supposed to look like that.

He took a single step closer. “Are you okay?” Because she’d called him here for a _reason_ , not so he could ogle her.

“I, um…” And then her eyes darted to the side and her head tilted, but before he could ask what was going on, she’d focused on him again. “It hurts,” she whispered.

He tensed. “What does?”

“ _All of it._ ”

He took another slow, careful step towards her. “You’re injured?” She looked…fine (better than fine, _amazing_ ), he supposed, but he didn’t really know what injuries looked like, other than obvious blood or limbs sticking in the wrong direction or something.

She inhaled tremulously. “No, no, I mean, except—” She raised her left hand, and he stopped dead at the sight of bandages plastered over her palm, blood oozing out over her skin, creating a sickeningly sharp contrast between the red and the pale white.

The last time he’d imagined blood like this, it had been all over his dad in a dark alley, lit up by police lights.

It was Karen’s turn to move towards him, a quick step that made her look queasy. She stopped. “Hey, Matt, it’s okay. It’s not that bad.“ That was obviously a lie, and one told for his benefit, which made it worse. “It’s just…” She gritted her teeth. “I _feel_ it more, and it…it won’t stop bleeding, and I can _taste_ it…”

“It needs stitches,” he said automatically. He hadn’t had to triage wounds by sight since he was nine, but that wasn’t the kind of thing easily forgotten. “Where’s your…?” He swiveled his head, trying to identify her first aid kit by sight and getting distracted by all the colors in her living room. Books, those were books. So many books. He took half a step in the direction of what he thought might be her bathroom when she let out a gasp from behind him.

Whirling around, he blinked as the world-resettled and he saw her sliding down the counter to the floor, pressing her hands over her ears with her eyes squeezed shut. He stumbled forward to crouch in front of her, hands hovering over her body, afraid to touch when he didn’t know what was wrong.

“It’s so _loud_ ,” she whimpered— _whimpered_ , he’d never heard her make that sound before.

He dropped his voice to barely a breath. “What is?”

“ _Everything_.”

A theory was starting to develop. He couldn’t decide whether he liked it because it gave him _some_ sense of understanding or hated it because it was terrifying, so simply decided to test it in the hopes that he’d help her in the process. “Karen. Focus on me. Focus, all right?”

Her eyes opened, letting him glimpse the tears there even though he couldn’t smell the salt.

“Good,” he whispered. “Now tell me. What are you picking up?”

“Blood,” she said immediately, which was…well. Not necessarily helpful.

He didn’t dare tear his eyes away from her lest he miss any of the emotions flickering across her face, and so he couldn’t look to see how visible his bloodiness actually was. All he knew was that he couldn’t smell it. “What else?” he prompted gently.

“Sweat, and—and your shampoo, it’s not odorless, not quite, but almost, and—and your toothpaste, and—” She was leaning in, blue eyes dark with concentration like identifying every scent he carried was the most important thing in the world right now, and he jerked back, heart suddenly pounding loud enough that he could actually hear it again, thumping in his ears, and she froze.

And her hand reached out to settle on his chest. Which did not exactly help to settle him.

“So that’s what it sounds like,” she said softly.

“Uh,” he said eloquently.

For several long moments, neither of them moved.

Then she flinched. “Oh—sorry—is that—do you—” And started to pull her hand away, flinching again, head twitching to the side.

He caught her hand in his without looking, muscle memory, and held it in place. “It’s fine. Focus. It’ll help block everything else out.” It wouldn’t be easy, but at least she was in the relative familiarity of her apartment, not waking up in a hospital with chemicals still burning her eyes. And she was so smart and so _stubborn_. She could do this, he was sure.

She hesitated, then slowly relaxed. He couldn’t hear the tension release from her muscles, but he could tell by the way her fingers uncurled slightly against his chest and by the way the breaths he felt ghosting in his face slowed, evening out.

“There we go,” he murmured as her eyes closed. “You’re okay. Focus on me. Deep breaths in…and out.” He followed his own instruction, letting her feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Well. Almost steady.

Her eyes snapped open. “Your—there’s—”

“Shh,” he said. “That’s not important right now.”

Her eyes widened. “It’s—it’s _grinding_ , Matt, like something’s—something’s _broken_. What—”

“Nothing’s broken,” he assured her. He’d know, wouldn’t he? Never mind the fact that he couldn’t hear his own lungs inflating like he normally could. However. He was actively trying not to think about whatever was wrong with him ( _something_ , he could admit begrudgingly, was in fact wrong) in case the pain he was currently blissfully numb to surprised him with its return. He changed the subject. “I know what happened to us. I think,” he added, remembering how she always stiffened up in annoyance when he stated speculation as fact and thinking vaguely that he’d rather die than cause her any more distress than she was already feeling, “I think that whatever got on us earlier, whatever was in those containers…I think it did something to us. To our senses. Like it…swapped them.”

Her eyes widened again, but the concern in her voice was replaced with something more like…awe. “You mean…what I’m feeling, this is what _you_ feel?”

“Sounds like it.” One of his hands was still holding hers against his chest and he wasn’t sure what to do with the other one, so he set it on her knee just to give her (them) another point of contact. “Except…it’s not what I feel right now. I can’t—I don’t really, um…” He gave a vague jerk of his head.

“You don’t have your senses,” she realized aloud. Then a small crease appeared between her eyebrows. She was…she was _frowning_ at him, that was what it was. He’d heard it in her voice a thousand times but now he was _seeing_ it, and it was possibly a little bit strange how much he loved it. Her eyes narrowed until he felt pinned in place by the intensity of her gaze. “Can you see me?”

It sounded exactly the same as it had when she’d asked him that question in his apartment, and as a result, Matt almost denied it on instinct. Instead, he dropped his gaze down to her floor (it was a nice floor, clean) and said, “Yes.”

Her tiny exhale sounded like a small, shocked laugh. “Wow. Um. Should I ask whether that’s…”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said quickly. Vision was still weird and difficult to wrap his head around, much less describe, and besides, if she asked what it was like for him he might start rambling about how beautiful she was, and she’d given no indication that she wanted to hear anything like that ever again.

Not from him, anyway.

So.

She nodded. “But—” She broke off, wincing in response to some noise somewhere. Matt squeezed his hand over hers, drawing her attention back to the relative peace of this room. She took a deep breath. “But…but I’m not blind.”

Matt wet his lips. “So I guess it didn’t swap all of our senses. Just my enhanced abilities. And gave them to you.”

“A power swap, not a senses swap?” She flinched at something, but recovered with impressive speed. “That sounds so stupid when I say it out loud.”

Matt just shrugged.

“Why wouldn’t it blind me, though? Except…” Her voice quickened the way it always did when she thought she was making progress on a case. “Except the chemicals that hit you only took your eyesight because they got _in_ your eyes, right? So blinding isn’t something innate to the chemicals. Not like the enhancements.”

Matt shrugged again. It was as likely a theory as any, but honestly that wasn’t his main concern right now. “It’s okay. I’ll figure out how to undo this.”

“ _We_ ,” she corrected.

He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not going to pretend you’re not handling this well, but trust me, Karen, you’re in no condition to step out onto the street right now. The sensory overload would…” He trailed off, jaw tightening at the memory of being rolled in a wheelchair out of the hospital for the first time. He’d started hyperventilating after two seconds.

Her voice rose a little. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Stay here,” he said flatly.

“And you?”

He didn’t want to leave her alone any more than he wanted to try to navigate the world without his senses. “…I’ll stay here too. We’ll tell Foggy what happened, maybe he can do some research. If this stuff wears off—”

“But what if it doesn’t?” she demanded, sitting up straighter, eyes flashing in a way that made him feel a stab of sympathy for anyone (including his past self) who’d ever tried to hinder her in her investigations. “We can’t just _hope_ this goes away, we have to _do_ something! I know it must be scary for you to not have your senses—”

“It isn’t that,” he interrupted indignantly.

“—but you can’t just hide from this!”

“I’m not _hiding_ ,” he snapped, “I’m trying to keep you from having a panic attack the second you step outside.”

She scoffed. “You’re not protecting me, you’re protecting yourself. It’s still the same.”

It wasn’t, it really wasn’t, but he wasn’t about to try to explain that to her. Not now, not if she’d already decided that he was…what, being a coward?

He lapsed into silence.

“And there we go,” she muttered.

He waited and, when she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, asked testily, “Yes?”

She sighed, distracted and agitated. “You’re so good at shutting people out.”

“I’m not—”

“Then _talk to me_ , Matt!”

“For what purpose?” he burst out. “I’m sorry for whatever I did to piss you off, but I’ve honestly lost track by this point, and it’s pretty clear that I’ll never stop pissing you off, so there’s really no point in—” He cut himself off.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his and her voice got small. “No point in what?”

She did that sometimes, went back and forth between ruthless and pitiful so fast that he got whiplash. It was unfair. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you…” She swallowed; he couldn’t hear it, but he could see it: the muscles in her throat moving under white skin. “Are you giving up?”

He rubbed tiredly at his forehead. “On what?”

“…On us.”

He felt a flash of defensive anger, but mostly he was just tired. And sad. And all too aware that she could tell. “There’s no us, Karen. And by the way, that was your choice.”

“Well, yeah, but that was before I knew about…” She gestured at him, then seemed to remember their current situation, and gestured vaguely at her own head. “And then you…then you died. We had a _funeral_ , Matt, but…” She lifted her chin; her voice hardened. “I didn’t give up on you.”

Right; she’d paid his rent, and he’d repaid her by not telling her he was back. He didn’t want to reopen that conflict, so he said nothing at all.

“The point is…I mean…um.” Her eyes dropped away from his, lashes dark against rose-tinted cheeks. “You really can’t read me?”

He shook his head mutely, helplessly. 

“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “So are you saying that if…if it were up to you…”

“If what were?” he asked nervously.

Her eyes locked onto his again. “Us.”

His heart was beating faster again; he couldn’t help it any more than he could help the heat rising under his skin, and it was all made worse by the fact that _she could sense it_. A very distant part of his mind noted wryly that this was a small taste of what it must have felt like for Foggy and Karen when they learned the extent of his senses, but he was firmly uninterested in determining whether this current turnabout was fair play.

“It’s—it’s not,” he stammered out, hoping that his voice would distract her from whatever else she was picking up on. She wasn’t as skilled with controlling the senses; multitasking would be harder for her. “Up to me. Up to any one person. That’s not how relationships work. And even if it were—” He realized belatedly that of his two options, talking or letting her listen to his body, he actually had no idea which was the more revealing. At least using his mouth gave him some tiny sense of _agency_ , of _control_. (He could almost pretend he was choosing honesty.) “You—you deserve better, Karen. Like I told you. And Foggy, Foggy deserves better, you both—”

“What, still?” she cut in.

He blinked, thrown off. “What?”

“You think we still deserve better than you?”

He grimaced. “Like I said—”

But she was already shaking her head. “On the rooftop, that was different. You were apologizing for keeping all those secrets, and for pushing us away. But you’re not doing either of those things anymore.”

But she’d just said—

He was so lost.

(Was he really this bad at understanding her without the help of his senses?)

She kept going, not giving him enough time to figure anything out. “So why would you think you’re not good enough for us now?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”

The word slipped out before he could stop it, but what did it matter? She could read his shock in his stuttered _breathing_.

Her eyes dropped away again. “Okay. That might be…that might be on me.”

Matt had no idea what she meant by that, so he kept his traitorous mouth closed and tried to practice meditation to calm his own signals while still straining for any clue at all as to what she was actually thinking.

She kept her eyes away from his and he couldn’t read her face. “I’ve just been…so frustrated.”

“I’ve gathered that,” he said stiffly.

“But not about all the…” She waved her hand awkwardly. “Old stuff. The secrets, the lying, the pulling away. I meant it when I said you’re not doing those things.”

He frowned. “What, then?”

She shifted slightly where she sat. “You know…Frank Castle talked about you.”

“…What?”

“ _We_ talked about you,” she corrected herself, tracing a pattern on her floor with a fingernail. “We were hiding out at this crappy diner, and he started…asking about you. He said he could tell…um…” She cleared her throat. “Anyway. He said that…he said that the people who can really hurt you are the ones who’re close enough to do it.”

That pretty much just sounded like Stick’s philosophy. Matt’s stomach tightened, contracting around a rock of guilt in his gut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t mean to get so close.” It wasn’t a lie, he _hadn’t_ meant to, it had just _happened_ , and now—

“What? No!” She was letting him see her eyes again, and they looked shocked. “Frank said that was a _good_ thing, Matt. He was just—he was trying to say that—” She hesitated, looking terrified by the very words coming out of her mouth, but she didn’t stop. “He was trying to say that love hurts.”

And that was supposed to be a good thing?

“And, like, I get it. Some kinds of hurt aren’t healthy. Like when you were lying to me about all these parts of you that are so important to you. But, like, now? When I’m irritated because you’re not talking to me or making me feel stupid or something? That wouldn’t bother me if I…if I didn’t care so much about…about what you think of me.”

Matt was more or less stuck with his mouth half-open, torn between interrogating her about when he’d ever made her feel stupid (since that made zero sense, given that she was the smartest person he knew) and daring to imagine what she might mean when she said she cared about what he thought of her.

“I mean…” She must be genuinely blushing now, because red was blooming across her cheeks. “Well, Foggy annoys me too, but it’s _Foggy_ , so it doesn’t really, um, _get_ to me the way it does with you.”

He thought he understood the implications there and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out something embarrassing.

“Anyway.” She shrugged, the motion small and stiff. “I guess it’s been kind of unfair of me to have this…this list of your offenses built up in my head when I’ve never even bothered to let you know. You must’ve felt like I never really forgave you for…everything else. And you must’ve been so confused because you didn’t know what you were doing wrong.” She ducked her head, then blinked up at him in a way that caused a swooping sensation in his stomach. “I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that a decent explanation for why Karen still gets to have vision? Again, the real reason is that I need her to be able to handle having an intense conversation, and that's hard enough with the heightened senses without taking away her vision, too. So, yeah.


	5. Sick Day Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the "sick day" slot on my Karedevil bingo card!

Karen

There. She’d said it. Funny how she felt more vulnerable now than she had when she’d first realized the extent of his senses. That had been…shocking, yes, and humiliating, and invasive, and all of that.

But the fact that she was _choosing_ to say all this made her feel exposed in a totally different way. Like the very act of choice added weight and honesty to her words that even his senses couldn’t ever have caught on their own.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, she tried to connect the look in his eyes—unsettled, bewildered, hopeful, _scared_ —to the wild beating of his heart. But it wasn’t as easy as she would’ve thought. Was his heart beating so fast because of any one of them, or a mix of all of it? She couldn’t tell.

“It’s okay,” she mumbled, words muffled by her knees and the soft fabric of her sweatpants. “You don’t need to say anything.”

“I didn’t…” He shifted his weight slightly; she could tell by the creaking of the floor and the creaking of his bones (and the suspicious grinding sound coming from his chest, but she didn’t know what it meant aside from the fact that she didn’t hear it when _she_ breathed, but she figured it would be pretty obvious if he’d broken a rib and punctured his lung, so…). “I didn’t know I was upsetting you. I mean, I knew you were upset, but I didn’t…I thought it was just based on, you know…” He spun his hand around, looking for words he’d actually want to say. “Everything I used to do.”

Was he even listening? “I just said it’s not your fault. I didn’t tell you.”

“I should’ve known,” he insisted.

“What, by reading my mind?” She sat up straighter, took a second to regain her equilibrium (her inner ears were _so_ sensitive, and no wonder he tightwalked above the city with such effortless confidence), and studied him. She could smell his sweat and hear his pulse, but none of that told her as much of what he was thinking as his face. For all that her senses were enhanced, it seemed that none of that could compete with the fact that she’d spent day after day studying his expressions, both with and without the red sunglasses.

Oh.

“I think…” she began haltingly. “I think I might have…overestimated you.”

His lips tightened; he gave a tiny nod as he pulled back.

“Not like that!” Her hand shot out to grab one of his, tangling her fingers with his. “I mean, with your senses. I assumed that…just because you could hear my heartbeat meant that you could _read_ it. I assumed that, if you knew I was annoyed, you must also know _why_. Which was why it’s always so frustrating when you act…”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, no. It doesn’t really work like that.” His head tilted, forehead creased, puppylike. “Normally, I try to use my senses to—to accommodate people. If I can tell that they’re upset or afraid or…or something, so I try to help. But you and Foggy said that was invasive, so I had to…stop. As much as I could.” His eyebrows drew closer together. He was frustrated, and she could see it in his face and hear it in his voice, and it was another example of the fact that her enhanced senses weren’t telling her anything that she didn’t already know just by virtue of _knowing him_. “So if I wasn’t supposed to read you, but I can’t _help_ reading you, but I’m not supposed to _act_ on it, but I’m supposed to know when to…to give you space, or something…” He trailed off, clenching his jaw. “Sorry.”

She stared at him. “Why are _you_ apologizing for me putting you in an impossible situation?”

“Because…” He trailed off again, like he didn’t really have an answer.

He probably didn’t, aside from a vague “you deserve better” that he (rightly) guessed that she wouldn’t want to hear.

“Look, Matt.” She scooted a little closer, both in an attempt to reassure him and because, frankly, his warmth and scent were both appealing. “Some of what you can do with, like, sensing…” She cringed. “Um, bodily functions, and all that, it’s…definitely really invasive. And embarrassing. And I wish you could stop. But I know you can’t. So…yeah, I guess I’d rather you just ignore that stuff. But.” She set all that firmly aside. “Some of what you figure out based on your senses is just…your way of knowing me.” She smiled softly and watched his eyes track the movement of her lips. “The same way that I use my normal senses to read your face or your voice or your body language. So it’s…it’s fine for you to use that to guess at what I’m feeling.”

His chin lifted a little. “It is?”

“It is,” she said firmly. “And in the meantime, I need to remind _myself_ that just because you can…hear my muscles tighten, or whatever, doesn’t mean you can actually read my mind. I need to, um…” She tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “I need to actually communicate with you. Tell you what I’m feeling and all that.”

Relief washed over his face. “That’d be great. I’d…I’d like that.”

She bit her lip. It seemed so stupidly obvious in hindsight. Why had it taken this much to get them to this place?

It didn’t matter; that was in the past. They were here _now_ , and that was what counted.

And she’d be content to sit there probably for forever, soaking in this newfound peace between them, enjoying the fact that he could actually meet her eyes, listening to his heartbeat. Except that his heartbeat was still too fast to be relaxed, just like his jaw was too tense and his eyebrows were still drawn too close together and his eyes were flickering uncertainly over her face. His heartbeat, though, it was…it was actually speeding up, the longer they sat there in silence. Which made no sense, they weren’t even doing anything. But the peace she’d found had clearly eluded him.

She frowned. “Matt?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly, so quickly that the lie was obvious even without the sound of his heartrate skipping.

“Matt.”

Heat rose in his face, leaving her torn between laughing at him and leaning in to get closer to the warmth. “I’m just thinking.”

“Mmhmm.” She raised an eyebrow, delighted at the intent expression on his face as he caught the slight movement. “About what?”

His eyes dropped down to her lips for a second and, well, that answered that.

And now _her_ heart was beating faster, and she was shocked to realize that she was honestly a tiny bit disappointed that for once he couldn’t hear it. “You want to kiss me,” she observed, keeping her voice as neutral as possible, studying him.

He gulped, flushing, one hand going up to rub awkwardly behind his neck. “Okay, yeah, that’s…that’s uncomfortable. I wasn’t going to _say_ anything, I swear. You don’t have to—uh.” He grimaced. “Never mind, I should—”

“Wait.” She put her hand on his knee and, oh, his heartrate jumped again. Even if she somehow got used to these senses of his, she’d never get used to that. “Are you asking?”

On the outside, he was frozen, a statue. “Are you saying yes?”

She said his name for no other purpose than to prove that she could, and then she leaned in.

He met her more than halfway, one hand skating up the outside of her arm to cup her face, going up on his knees and angling his head to deepen the kiss, and he did all of it with the certainty of a man who’d been waiting for, no, _expecting_ this opportunity.

She had about two seconds to wonder at the contrast between his self-doubt on the one hand and his cocksureness on the other, but then he did something with his tongue that caused rational thought to flicker out. She’d never found his skill wanting before, but kissing him now, after all their secrets had been laid bare, brought with it an intensity that took her breath away.

And then, _oh_ , the senses. Not only did they bring new immediacy to the kiss, but they picked up on the way his entire body lit up as he pressed closer to her. His thumb brushed over her ear and that wouldn’t have done much for her before, but now it was like she could feel his _fingerprint_ , all the grooves and whorls, imprinting wherever he touched her until each point of contact sparked electric.

She pulled back a little, dizzy and trying to catch her breath.

He was wearing the stupidest smirk. “Good?”

She closed her eyes. “Shut up. It’s the senses.”

He made an indignant sound. “By definition, they increase sensitivity. They don’t enhance performance. If anything, they make it impossible to ignore something you don’t like.” Then he hesitated. “Have I…done something you don’t like?”

She’d love to tease him about that, but the doubt was real and this thing between them was still far, far too fragile. Instead, she leaned in closer. “Absolutely not,” she whispered, bringing her mouth to his again, this time letting her hands trail down, over his chest and—

He flinched backwards, sucking in a breath, one hand jerking up reflexively but stopping just shy of actually touching his ribs.

Her eyes narrowed. “Matt.”

“Sorry,” he said, shifting to get a different angle and leaning in again, eyes closing.

She stopped him with her hands on his shoulders, not daring to touch lower. “Matt, _wait_. Are you hurt?”

He looked distinctly unhappy as his eyes opened again. “Probably.”

She stared at him. And stared at him. Finally, she managed, “ _Probably?_ ”

“Hard to say,” he explained, stretching experimentally. “I don’t feel or hear everything as much as normal, so…”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You do realize that people without enhanced senses can still tell when they’ve broken a rib.”

He was already shaking his head. “Not broken, or I wouldn’t have been able to have this very pleasant conversation, senses or no.”

“But…” she prompted.

His expression became chagrinned. “But I…may have fallen off a building. And…clipped a dumpster. Nothing’s broken, though, I swear.”

“Let me decide that.” Edging closer, she still didn’t touch him, but she focused on listening to his chest, to the sound of his breathing. She bit her lip. “Grinding, I still hear grinding.”

“Ah, that?” Matt shrugged stiffly. “That’s old. And it’s still not broken, just cracked.”

“Cracked?” she yelped.

“Hey.” He looked amused as he caught one of her hands and fiddled absently with her fingers. “Like I said. Old.”

She focused harder until she thought she noticed irregular patches of heat under his skin. “Bruised?” she guessed.

He started to shrug again—apparently too vigorously, because he stopped with a wince. “Probably.”

Well, Karen didn’t entirely trust that she knew how to properly use these senses, and she definitely didn’t trust his assessment of his own injury, so she untangled her hand from his and gently scrunched the black shirt up so she could see his ribs. (Definitely no ulterior motives there.)

His right side was mottled red and purplish, with a few flecks of dried blood where the edge of the dumpster had apparently abraded his skin through his shirt. And that was on top of the latticework of scars crisscrossing his body and another, deeper, older bruise over his left ribs. “Oh, Matt,” she said sympathetically, trying to imagine what all that would feel like with the same senses that had made kissing him so vivid.

“It’s not that—” He glanced down and cut himself off. “Huh.”

“Lots of colors, right?” she asked, watching him.

He was frowning. “Do I, uh…do I always look like this?”

“Yeah, actually.” Sighing, she let his shirt fall back into place. “Sit tight, let me grab ice.” She stood up a little too quickly and had to lean on the counter while she regained her balance. Matt jerked towards her with a low, pained noise. “Shh,” she said sternly. “I’m fine.”

Now he made an affronted noise, but he sat back, cross-legged in the middle of her kitchen floor like he was planning on meditating. She felt a surge of affection.

Anyway. Opening her freezer, she got out an ice pack and turned back to see that his eyes had drifted…downwards. “Hey,” Karen said, snapping her fingers and biting back a smirk. “My eyes are up here.”

His eyes darted up as his face flushed bright red, and the drumbeat of his heart was like a train, fast in his chest. “Sorry, s-sorry, I didn’t—uh—” He ducked his head but kept his eyes on hers like he was too scared to look anywhere else. “Sorry.”

Her lips were twitching. After all, it wasn’t like…well, back before she realized how well he could map things out with his senses, she’d caught herself maybe-kind-of wishing he could see some of her, y’know, assets. Things he couldn’t just touch without permission.

And now, safe in the knowledge that he for once could _not_ hear her heartbeat, she let herself feel the tiniest bit smug that she’d gotten that selfish wish. And his reaction was certainly satisfying.

“It’s okay,” she said in a softer tone, kneeling in front of him again with the ice pack. “And, um, it’s probably only fair to tell you that it’s not like I haven’t, um…enjoyed some of the advantages of sight. With regards to you.”

He raised his eyebrows, half a grin forming on his lips. “Advantages of sight.”

She shoved the ice pack at him. “Shut up and ice your ribs.” He dutifully accepted the pack, looking perfectly willing to just stay sitting there on the hardwood floor, but she kind of thought that wouldn’t be conducive to healing, so she gently nudged his shoulder. “Couch? The floor can’t feel good when you’re already hurt.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something stupid about how he couldn’t really feel it without his senses, but then he seemed to do some quick mental calculations involving her and him and a couch, and he nodded. “Yeah, sounds good.”

They stood up, already in a bit of a tangle of limbs as they both tried to help the other, and Karen reveled in the easy camaraderie she’d missed so desperately. On the couch, she curled up with her head on his shoulder, listening to and feeling his heartbeat at the same time while he held the ice pack in place with one hand and traced some indiscernible pattern on the fabric of her sweatpants with the other.

Of course, things weren’t entirely peaceful. What happened if they were stuck like this forever? He’d said after he showed her the mask that he thought his senses were not only different but better. Even though she knew she wasn’t at fault for any of this, she couldn’t help feeling like she’d stolen something from him. And, knowing him, she wouldn’t be surprised at all if underneath all his flirtatiousness he was feeling guilty for inflicting her with senses she didn’t want or know how to use.

Speaking of that. What were they supposed to do tomorrow? She didn’t think she could leave the quiet and familiarity of her apartment with these senses now that they’d fully settled in, and she was kind of terrified of what would happen if he tried to be Daredevil without them.

“Karen?” he asked, turning towards her. “What is it? You tensed up.”

She sat up. “You can tell?”

“You were leaning on me,” he pointed out reasonably.

Right. “Just…thinking about tomorrow. And the next day. And however long it’ll be before…”

His forehead creased. “Yeah.” And there was that predictable guilty note in his voice.

“Not your fault,” she said automatically, twisting to reach for where she’d left her phone after calling him back when she realized this wasn’t just a panic attack. She turned it on, but then Matt’s wrist shot out to stop her from doing anything else. “What—oh.”

Matt was staring at the screen, which was currently showing that picture of the three of them from St. Patrick’s Day. Her head was tucked up under Matt’s chin, and Matt had a smug grin, and then there was Foggy wearing a goofy hat and holding a pitcher.

“Foggy,” she gasped. “We have to video chat him!” She swiped through her phone until she found the right app, then hit Foggy’s icon, watching Matt as it rang.

“Hey?” Foggy’s voice said huffily, and Matt scooted closer, eyes widening. (The ice pack slithered to the floor, forgotten.) “I hope you’re dying, because that’s the only excuse for video calling me unsolicited. Video calls are even worse than phone calls.”

Karen glanced back at the phone to see Foggy’s face, poorly lit from the light of his phone and what was probably the TV, on his couch in pajamas, hair rumpled. Marci was behind him, muttering about their show being interrupted.

“Hey, Foggy!” Karen’s voice cracked a little. “Sorry, I should’ve given you a heads up, but we don’t know how long this’ll last, and I thought, um…” She tilted the screen so Foggy could see Matt.

“Oh, you guys are hanging out?” Foggy sat up straighter. “So…is this call to congratulate me on my expert matchmaking and counseling skills?”

Karen blushed and felt matching heat from where Matt was crowded in next to her. “No, nope, nothing like that. Just, um…that chemical stuff had, um, an effect, and now, um…” She gestured at Matt with her free hand.

Not tearing his eyes away from the screen for a second, Matt cleared his throat and said in the most fake casual voice she’d ever heard, “I can see you.”

“ _What?_ ” Foggy squawked, and promptly dropped the phone, treating them to a brief visual whirlwind before they ended up staring at his ceiling. His face reappeared a second later. “Sorry, _what?_ ”

Karen pointed at herself. “I got his senses.” She pointed at Matt. “He lost his senses, but got sight. Makes sense?”

“No,” Foggy said immediately, talking too fast the way he always did when he was caught off guard, “except that you two live comic book lives, so, I guess the senses thing makes sense in that sense, if that makes sense. Um, hold on.” Keeping the phone up to his face, he headed into another room, switched on the light, and pulled his best attempt at a duck face. “Fess up, Murdock. How beautiful am I?”

Karen giggled, but Matt was just staring unblinkingly.

“Uh.” Foggy reverted back to his normal face. “Yeah. So. Hey, this is me. Hi.”

Matt nodded wordlessly.

“I mean, it’s not all of me,” Foggy chattered on, “but trust me, this is the part you wanna see. I can show you Marci, too, if you want, but she might give you nightmares.”

Karen cocked her head at Matt. “ _Is_ there anyone else you wanna see?”

Matt pulled back a little, like he needed actual, physical space between himself and Foggy’s image to have room to think. A second later, he blurted out: “My mom?”

Karen’s chest tightened. “Yeah. Definitely. I mean, I don’t know if she has video calling, but…we’ll figure it out,” she finished firmly. “Catch that, Foggy? I’m gonna hang up and try to get ahold of Maggie.”

Foggy’s expression turned soft. “No problem. I’ll do some digging in the meantime, see if I can turn up any clues as to how long this is supposed to last. Cool?”

She appreciated his optimism in assuming that it wouldn’t last. “Cool,” she confirmed, and waited until Matt nodded before hanging up. Then she made him get out his burner phone because she didn’t actually have Maggie’s number. She tried texting first, and got no answer, so she opted for calling next, since this really seemed like a worthwhile emergency. A mostly happy emergency, for once. Still, she got voicemail.

Matt shrank a little, disappointed and clearly trying not to show it.

She put her hand on his knee. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll keep trying.”

Before she could text or call again, however, her phone vibrated with an incoming text from Foggy.

 _so u know how the NYPD was chasing the guys w the goo from Brooklyn?_ Foggy began. _the bad guys spilled it on some other ppl first. the sense-swap wasn’t as obvs but it caused some problems for a soccer mom w LASIK whose eyesight swapped w some kid w 20/20 vision. good news is, it cleared up in about 24 hrs. so maybe it’ll be the same for u guys._

Karen started reading the text aloud instinctively, stopped when she realized Matt could technically read it just fine, and started again when she realized she could still read written text faster. Taking his hand, she squeezed it. “Twenty-four hours. We can do twenty-four hours. And that gives us time to figure out how to let you see Maggie.”

He was nodding determinedly. “Won’t be that bad. You should take a sick day tomorrow, though. Stay home until this wears off.”

“What about you?”

“Me, I’ll be fine.” He stood up gingerly from the couch. “It’ll be a little harder navigating home, but I can—”

Wait, what? “Home?” She stood up too, eyes narrowing. “You’re going home?”

“Well, yeah.” He shot her a kind of awkward glance over his shoulder. “You seem to have a pretty good grasp on the senses, so as long as you stay here, there’s no need for me to—”

“You don’t want to stay?”

He froze. “Stay?”

“Just…” She wet her lips. “Until this wears off.”

He shook his head a little sadly. “You don’t need my help, Karen.”

“No, I know.” She took a step closer and took a deep breath. “I want you to stay anyway.”

His eyes widened, searching her face.

“Oh—here.” She took his hand (a sudden movement that he apparently didn’t see coming, based on his flinch) and pressed it hard to her chest. “Heartbeat, steady. Not lying. Please, Matt.” She met his gaze, held it. “Stay.”

For a long time, he just stood there, and she had no idea what he was thinking at all. But then the smallest possible smile turned the corners of his mouth upwards. “You, uh…you should text Foggy, then. Tell him we’re both taking a sick day tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently it's no longer recommended to wrap bruised, broken, or cracked ribs. Because pneumonia. Which, okay, fair, but have these medical so-called experts even considered the impact on fandom and our loss of intimate wrapping?
> 
> Anyway, that's a wrap on this weird fic, but feel free to imagine what fun these two might have with their "sick day." ;) ;) ;)


	6. Sick Day Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiiii so a bunch of people wanted more, and I'm a people pleaser, so...

Karen

“Done,” Karen said as soon as she’d sent the text (still marveling a little at how much extra detail her fingers could pick up, like the tiny chips and indents on her phone that she’d never noticed before). Then she quickly shoved the phone into her pocket, not wanting to see how Foggy responded to the revelation that she and Matt were both taking the day off tomorrow. It was the _sensible_ thing to do, but Foggy was immature.

(No. Foggy was fed up with his two best friends fighting. And Foggy was the type of friend who wanted what was best for _his_ friends. Including—especially—if what was best for them was…each other.)

(She was getting ahead of herself here.)

Still, she couldn’t suppress a feeling of giddiness once the phone was away and she met Matt’s eyes. They had nothing to do for the next twenty-four hours except be together and she had _no idea_ what to expect.

They stared at each other for what felt like an awkward amount of time before Matt offered a shy, lopsided grin and glanced away. With one hand going towards his ribs, he bent gingerly to pick up the ice pack.

Right. Still injured. The palm of her hand throbbed, like her own injury was petulant at having been forgotten. She flexed it, feeling the slight stick and unstick of the bandage over congealed blood. “So, um…” She shifted her weight awkwardly. “What do we do now?”

He glanced up at her again. “Whatever you want.” He cleared his throat. “I mean…if you wanna test out the senses, I can make some recommendations.”

She bit her lip, wondering if on second thought this was a bad idea. At least, it was a bad idea if she was gonna hear innuendos in every little thing he said. Could be worse, though; he could be able to tell exactly what she was thinking. Tonight she didn’t have to worry about that, unless she visibly blushed. She hoped. “Um, like what?”

“Do you have anything silk?”

She deliberately did not think about her underwear drawer. “A few scarves, I guess.”

“Well, it’s just…” He ducked his head. “Really nice to feel. I mean, it’s nothing significant, it’s just…”

“Hey.” She moved in close and touched his arm. (He was still dressed in black, and she was a tiny bit fascinated by the stiff, beveled feel of the black compression guards strapped to his forearms.) “It’s okay. You’re allowed to like nice things.”

Grimacing a little, he rolled his eyes. “Stick, the, uh…the guy who mentored me? The one I told you about? He said my silk sheets would end up choking me to death.”

She blinked. “What?”

His gave a half-smile that was obviously forced. “It was just part of his, uh…never mind.”

He’d told her, after her first showed her the mask, bits and pieces of his story. More than he ever told Foggy, at least according to one night when she and Foggy both got very drunk and compared notes. She tried to reassure Foggy with the fact that Foggy hadn’t found out in the best of circumstances. Foggy had not actually been reassured.

The point was: Karen knew a little something about Stick. And she knew that it was no small thing for Matt to bring him up now, by name, when Stick was so tied to all Matt’s secrets and insecurities.

So she leaned in and kissed his cheek, lips tingling from his stubble. “I’ll get something silk.”

~

The scarves were _amazing_. Soft didn’t come close to describing the smooth, slippery texture that felt like a balm compared to the scratch of cotton and synthetics. She totally got why Matt wanted to sleep in it. If he weren’t here, with sight, she would’ve stripped by now and changed into that one silk nightgown she had. Instead, she sat on the couch and focused on rubbing the soothing material between her fingers, feeling like a little kid playing with her favorite blanket.

Matt, meanwhile, sat next to her. Not quite close enough to touch but close enough for her to feel his warmth as she gave him her phone and directed him to YouTube. There were several compilations of Daredevil in action that she wanted to see, random citizens snatching clips of him flipping around the city and even a bit of footage of fights.

“I don’t have to see it,” he protested when she told him what to look up. “I’ve lived it.”

“No, I know, I just thought…” She tilted her head at him, watching for his reaction. “They’re not just cheesy compilations of your best moves. They’re more like…tributes. You know?”

His forehead creased slightly. He didn’t say anything else before playing the first video. She watched his face rather than the video, watched his eyes flick back and forth over the screen. This particular video, she knew, ended not with more of scenes of him but instead with a montage of signs and posts people had made thanking Daredevil for keeping them or their friends and family safe.

His mouth parted slightly. When it was over, he kept staring at the screen like he was stunned.

“I just thought,” she said quietly, “you’d want to see how much they all appreciate you.”

He laughed. A good impression of his normal laugh, but with her senses she could hear the almost indiscernible tightness to it that told her he’d been hit with more emotion than he’d expected. “Can’t believe this,” he muttered. “You show me this, and the best I can come up with for you is _scarves_.”

“Hey, now,” she protested, “don’t sell yourself short. I am really appreciating these scarves right now.”

His eyes brightened with some new idea. “What about music?”

She hadn’t even thought about that. “I have earbuds.”

He shook his head. “You won’t want earbuds. They feel terrible.”

“You use them all the time at work,” she argued, narrowing her eyes.

“Yeah,” he said blankly.

“Matt! Why do you use them if you hate them?”

“What else am I supposed to do? Wrestle to get headphones on and off all day?”

She found it a bit absurd that a man who regularly fought actual criminals considered dealing with headphones a hassle until she remembered that he was, normally, actually blind. Closing her eyes, she noted the way her brain automatically focused on her auditory input—and that was _without_ years of her brain developing in response to zero visual stimuli. So, yeah, she could see why he’d opt for something easy to remove from his ears over comfort. Especially in light of the fact that he knew how dangerous the city could become at any moment. She opened her eyes. 

Matt wrinkled his nose at her. “What?”

“What, what?” she asked.

“You’re smiling,” he observed carefully. “What are you thinking about?”

She was thinking about how differently he perceived the world, both because of his senses and because of how he’d grown up, and she was thinking about how much easier it was to understand him when she just took a second to factor all of that in. It was such a tiny thing, figuring out why he would choose earbuds over headphones, but it made her feel like her feet were on solid ground with him in a way that had never really been possible before. First he’d been her charming-yet-elusive lawyer, then her attractive-but-unreliable coworker, then her secret-keeping boyfriend, and then _Daredevil_ , with all the darkness and complexities that came with the identity.

Now he was just…Matt.

“Let’s do music,” she said softly.

~

She hooked her laptop up to her TV so they could play their playlists through quality speakers. She determinedly avoided playing anything serious or romantic, opting for happy, goofy songs instead. It was still breathtaking (when she wasn’t distracted by sounds outside the apartment). The layers to every note, the details she’d never noticed…well, she caught each note that fell too sharp or too flat, but even the mistakes made the songs feel more…real.

Then it was Matt’s turn to pick. He chose some orchestral piece, she didn’t know the name, and as soon as the music swelled from the speakers, her eyes fell closed and she dropped down onto the couch, entranced.

“This is what it’s like for you?” she asked, lips barely moving, not wanting to interrupt the sound. “All the time?”

He didn’t speak, but she sensed his nod. They sat in silence together through one full song, but as the second started, he leaned towards her. “Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?” She felt everything.

“The music.” And then his hand came up to rest on her knee, fingers dancing over her sweatpants to follow the piano’s notes. “Don’t just hear it. Feel it.”

If she closed her eyes, yes, she could feel it. The treble notes trilling in her chest, the base notes settling somewhere deeper, deeper and deeper until she wasn’t sure where she ended and the music began.

“Karen.” Matt’s hand found hers. “Do you dance?”

The question startled her out of her trance; she opened her eyes with a sheepish laugh. “Uh, not really. Back in Vermont, I didn’t exactly get much classical education.”

She couldn’t hear his heartbeat over the music, his earnestness was all over his face. “Neither did I.” He stood up, still holding her hand. “May I?”

He was _serious_. Safe in the knowledge that he couldn’t tell how nervous she suddenly felt, she let him pull her to her feet and into the middle of the living room. Still, she didn’t want him to be disappointed. “Matt, I’m telling you, I don’t know how to dance.”

His hand still held hers. He tipped his head to one side, hopeful. “Well, can you follow my lead?”

“It might shock you to hear that I’m…not great at following.” Karen Page set her own pace, came up with her own moves.

But he was just _looking_ at her, with the biggest puppy eyes, and now that she was focusing on him she found that she _could_ hear his heart, and it was beating fast enough to let her know that he was nervous, too.

So she swallowed her pride and actively resisted the temptation to discount the whole thing with an eye-roll when she said, “Okay, okay, I’ll try.”

His smile was small and shy, but there was a hint of delight underneath, like this meant more to him than she knew. He wound his fingers through hers, and his lips curled knowingly when she shivered at the heat of his other hand coming to rest on her waist. She set her bandaged left hand carefully on his shoulder, taken aback for a second by the breadth of it.

He stepped smoothly backwards, and then they were in motion. He moved with the same grace he always had—or, if anything, he was even _more_ graceful, stepping in time with the music as if the beat was part of him. It was stupid, given that he was still wearing black combat boots. But that was only one of many contradictions, second compared to how strange it was to feel the rough callouses of his hand in such vivid detail, contrasting with the gentle way he was guiding her now. His eyes lit up, a mix of emotions swirling there. Once again she found that listening to his heartbeat wasn’t enough to tell her what he was really thinking.

Not that she had a lot of concentration to spare on dissecting him when she had to focus on not tripping over her own feet—or over his. Letting someone else lead felt as unnatural here as it did in every area of her life.

“Shh,” he murmured. “You’re thinking too much.”

“Why do you say that,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on the space between their feet.

“Don’t think. Just feel.” He lifted their joined hands (with a tiny wince, which she knew better than to comment on).

She knew enough about how dancing was _supposed_ to work to know she was supposed to spin, but she didn’t know what to do with her hand while she turned. She didn’t want to let go, so she ended up twisting over herself, which worked for about two seconds before she lost her balance.

Matt leaned quickly forward to catch her, laughing, one arm going around her back while the other held her arm to steady her.

“Shut up!” She tried to shake him off. “My part’s harder.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said, but he was still laughing. “Try again?”

There was that same hopeful expression. She couldn’t say no to that. He probably knew it, too. Still, Karen couldn’t quite bring herself to be annoyed at him. “All right, all right. Just…maybe save the spinning for next time.”

“Next time?” he asked, voice going soft, like the mere prospect of a _next time_ was something precious and fragile.

She cleared her throat. _Next time_ wasn’t fragile, she hoped, but it was definitely powerful. _Next time_ meant sometime outside of this weird, insulated bubble they’d found themselves in here in the safety of her apartment, away from other people’s prying eyes and observations, away from the pressures of a city that never stopped trying to hurt the ones they loved.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Next time.”

A different song filled the air, something else from his playlist. This piece was more subtle. Piano notes both overlapping and forming a clear, sweet melody. He drew her back to the center of the room and, once she was ready, started moving again. But it was slower this time, and he held her with less distance between them. The fraction of distance remaining could only be an invitation.

She slid closer, unable to bite back a smile when she felt his hand on her waist transition to the small of her back through her thin sweatshirt. Letting her eyes close, she rested her chin on his shoulder. His body relaxed at the touch of hers.

“Matt,” she whispered in his ear as they swayed together.

She felt his answering hum before she heard it, rumbling where her breast pressed against his chest.

“I’m…” She searched for how to say it. “I’m sorry I’m so bad at this.”

Something told her he knew she wasn’t only talking about the dancing. He held her closer. “You’re doing just fine.”

His heartbeat didn’t skip.

Eyes still closed, she tilted her head until her lips pressed under his jaw. A second later, she felt him turn so he could find her lips with his own.

She lost herself in the warm, soft pressure of the kiss. His hand at her back traveled up, cupping her neck, while his other held the back of her head. He sealed the space between them, claiming her. His heartbeat raced in her ears and his scent was everywhere, blocking out the rest of the world. Heat curled through her stomach and chest when he suddenly pulled back, making her long for more. She cracked her eyes open, expecting to see him smirking, proud of himself, teasing her.

Instead, she found his head bowed, chest rising and falling, eyes still closed, lips moving almost indiscernibly. With her stolen senses, she could just barely hear what should have been silent: his fractured, whispered thankfulness, breathed out again and again as if in prayer.

Her stomach flipped. It _was_ a prayer.

She was frozen, transfixed by the weight of his reaction, when without warning he ducked in again, recapturing her mouth. More heat rushed through her and she responded in kind, gripping his shirt, which he seemed to take as permission to slide the hand not on her neck down to slip under the hem of her thin sweatshirt.

Sparks erupted. Her breath caught. He grinned against her mouth.

“Matt.” She opened her eyes, stomach flipping again when their gazes immediately locked. “How, um, how far do you…” Her mind was swimming too much to figure out how to ask what she needed to ask.

His voice was rough, eyes dark but glowing. “What do you want?”

Her mind had no problem answering that question. “You. Now.”

For a second, his hand on her neck pressed harder against her skin, and her heart clenched at the realization that maybe he was trying to feel the pulse he’d normally be able to hear.

“You,” she repeated, no, _insisted,_ as she guided his hand down to her chest to hold it fast over her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I don't normally write stuff this romantic, and definitely not with an emphasis on sensory input. I was literally googling "how to write kissing scenes." All that to say, I'm a bit nervous sharing this, but I hope y'all liked it.


	7. Sick Day Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING. In case you didn't notice, the rating went up to M. See, I couldn't stop thinking about what it would be like for these two to try to figure out their senses (and each other) in a more, um, intimate way. So *buries face in hands* welcome to my first smut scene.
> 
> EXTRA WARNING, AND SPOILER ALERT: being two walking disasters, they kinda go a bit too fast, and it's not exactly smooth sailing. I understand that this could be triggering. Please take care of yourselves!
> 
> ALSO I'M (mostly) SORRY FOR THE CLIFFHANGER.

Matt

He couldn’t think why she would possibly lie about this, but all the things he would normally be picking up on from her were either hard to pin down for sure or beyond the reach of his muted senses entirely. As for him, his mouth was dry, and he didn’t want to think what else _she_ was picking up on right now. Not—not that he didn’t want her to know how much he wanted her, exactly. More that he didn’t want his desire to sway her decision.

Well, there…there was also, maybe, a hint of anxiety because he was putting himself out there, albeit involuntarily, with no guarantee of reciprocation from her. After all, he was used to knowing his partner’s interest in him well before they could be sure of his interest in them.

But the anxiety was ridiculous. He loved her. He wanted her. And for someone occasionally called the Man Without Fear, he really should have the guts to let that be known without waiting for her to move first.

But that didn’t mean he wanted to make any assumptions where she was concerned. He opened his mouth. “Karen, are you sure you—”

“ _Yes_.” She surged in, kissing the question from his lips. “Don’t make me tell you again.” Her hands tangled in his hair as she started pushing him backwards through the living room.

This was happening. _This was happening._

He was so lost in the pressure of her mouth on his and the anticipation of what was about to happen that the jarring sensation of clipping a doorframe with the side of his hip made him let out an undignified yelp of surprise.

Karen startled backwards, took one look at his face, and burst out laughing.

Matt glared at the offending doorframe, although he couldn’t quite keep up his annoyance with it because it happened to be the doorframe of her bedroom. “You really need to work on leading, Miss Page.”

She was merciless. “ _You_ need to understand that us normal people bump into things all the time.”

“Point,” he conceded, not particularly concerned with debating the issue at that exact moment. She stepped up to him again, lips finding his unerringly as she maneuvered him into her bedroom. His heart started hammering even faster when he caught a glimpse of her bed.

Except. Except.

“Karen—” He planted his feet, turned his head, and took a quick breath. “Are you sure—”

He broke off at her expression; he’d clearly asked the question one time too many because she stepped away, wearing some expression that was too complicated for him to decipher. “I keep _telling_ you, Matt. I want this.”

“No, no, I get that, just…” He trailed off, distracted for a second by his own blatant lie because _why_ would she want _him?_ “I just mean, are you…are you sure you’re up for this?”

Her eyebrows shot up; now she looked torn between laughing and rolling her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me you’re that good?”

“I’m not…” His face heated up. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you. With…my senses.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Not gonna lie, that’s kinda part of the appeal. Not that I wouldn’t want this anyway,” she added hurriedly. “But, you know…”

“I know.” He cleared his throat and put his hands in his pockets for lack of an idea what else to do with them. “I’m just saying, it’s…a lot. Especially when you’re not used to it.”

As if to prove his point, she suddenly flinched, head snapping around in response to a sound that Matt couldn’t even hear.

“See,” he mumbled.

She tucked her hair behind her ears. “I want to try.”

He searched her face, searched for any sign that she didn’t mean it.

All he saw was her slow smirk and downwards glance. “And I know you do, too.”

Groaning, he backed up farther until he could sit on her bed. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s definitely part of the point,” she teased as she joined him, sitting close enough that her leg was a line of heat against his. Then her playfulness faded somewhat as she cocked her head, now gently inquisitive. “What are you so worried about?”

 _I don’t want you to regret this._ That was the truth, in a sense, but he also knew her inevitable rebuttal would just be to insist that she wanted this anyway. He searched for a better way to say it, and found a heavier truth rising in his mind—and clogging in his throat.

So, so much easier to phrase it in a way that put her as the subject.

“Matt?”

He took a deeper breath. “I don’t…I don’t want to hurt you?”

Humiliatingly, it came out like a question. Like he needed to see her reaction to his fear before he presented it as fact.

“Oh, Matt.” She took his hand. “You won’t.”

Easy for her to say that now. He fidgeted uncomfortably, rubbing the fingers of his other hand together. “You don’t know that.”

“What if I think it’s worth the risk?”

He didn’t have a counterargument to that. He dropped his eyes away, staring at his combat boots. A stark reminder that he went out every night with the express purpose of causing people pain. And maybe _he_ was the one who couldn’t risk bringing any of that anywhere near Karen.

She gave a small sigh, one his dull ears barely caught. “Mind letting me in on whatever you’re telling yourself right now?”

He was such an idiot. Here he was, being offered everything he wanted, and he was _fighting_ it.

Karen sighed again. “Sorry. I don’t mean to…I mean, if you don’t want to do this…”

His head snapped up. “No, no, I want this. I just…” He dragged his hand through his hair. Wet his lips. Fidgeted a bit more. Wondered, distantly, how it was that he was so good with words when dealing with a witness or in front of a jury, yet so _abysmal_ at just telling her what he was worried about.

Of course, it wasn’t really that he lacked the words. He simply lacked the courage to say them out loud.

“Take your time,” she said softly.

The tenderness in her expression made his throat tighten. And when was the last time someone had given him permission to take more than he should need? Of time, of anything?

He braced himself, then said it in a rush: “You’ll hate me if I hurt you.”

Her eyes widened.

“Or—or you won’t, uh, want to do this again. Even once we’re…” He gestured helplessly between them. “Back to normal.”

She nodded slowly. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.

“Okay.” She reached out. “Give me your hand.”

He frowned, unsure where she was going with this.

“Matt, c’mon.” She actually snapped her fingers, although the impatience was oddly endearing, since she didn’t seem upset. Simply eager to banish his concerns.

He gave her his hand.

She held it up to her throat once more, pressing his fingers to her pulse. “I,” she began clearly, “will not hate you. And I would be _shocked_ if I don’t want to do this again.” She lowered their joined hands, giving him a small smile. “I’m not an idiot, Matt. Your senses are crazy, and I’m not used to them, and tomorrow, or the day after, I hope I’ll never have them again. If your senses _do_ make this weird, or hard, or whatever, that’s not your fault. Trust that I know that. Okay?”

He swallowed. “Okay.”

~

He stood up. First to go were his heavy combat boots which really had no place in her bedroom. Next were his various pads and compression guards, which Karen tore away with a look of utter determination, stealing kisses while she worked.

Then she stepped back. “You watching?”

He stared, wide-eyed, as she pulled her sweatshirt over her head and slipped out of her sweatpants, leaving her in nothing but pale blue panties. Well aware that he might never see this image again, he tried to sear it into his memory. The graceful lines and curves of her body, the tiny moles and freckles dotting her creamy skin here and there, the warm glow of her blush.

For a moment, she stayed still, soaking up his attention. Then she sauntered over to him. “You need help?”

He was having a hard time focusing on her question. “Huh?”

She tugged lightly at his tight black shirt still tucked into his pants. “Because of your ribs.”

“Oh. Uh.”

She took that as an affirmative, apparently, and wasted no time in slipping her fingers under his shirt, working it up, using a lighter touch wherever her fingers brushed against his mottled bruises. She paused periodically to grin at him, leaving him even more flustered. How was she always so self-confident? He wasn’t sure he could achieve similar levels without shutting his brain off (at least, not with _her_ ) and yet the last thing he wanted was to spend their first time in a lusty haze. Caught between two extremes, he didn’t know what to do.

She paused again. “Matt? You okay?”

He nodded.

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking too much.”

A nervous laugh escaped him. “Uh…yeah, probably.”

“Remember what you said about dancing? Don’t overthink, just feel?”

He pressed his lips together. “Forgive me for finding that the stakes are a little higher right now.”

She arched an eyebrow. “What stakes? We trust each other. We care about each other. We want each other.”

“Just…” He was being stupid. He shook his head. “Yeah, sorry.” And he leaned down to kiss her, setting his hands low on her waist.

She let out an approving hum, breaking the kiss only to say, “That’s better,” and eased his shirt the rest of the way over his head.

Just feel. Intuition. Strange how easy that kind of thing was when he was jumping off buildings or fighting criminals. Then again, maybe it wasn’t so strange—the worst thing that could happen in those scenarios was just that he might die.

Holding _her_ in his hands, though…this was terrifying.

_Please, God. Don’t let me mess this up._

He really didn’t want to know what the nuns would think of him praying while a woman was unzipping his pants, but this was _Karen_. If he put up a wall now between loving God and loving her, he’d be living with that wall for the rest of his life.

Wait.

The rest of his life?

“Matt?” She tilted her head up at him. “Your heart just went…”

“I’m okay.” He was, he really was. He wanted her, and the fact that this was the first time since Elektra that he couldn’t imagine an end date was…good to know, but not the most important thing right now. Besides, he was done with being the one slowing this down. Before he could talk (or think) himself out of it, he shed both pants and boxers.

With an appreciative bite of her lip, she swept her gaze over him. Then she followed his example, dropping her panties down to her feet. He tried to close the space between them, but she stopped him with a hand over his heart, gazing down at his chest. The emotions in her eyes were beyond his ability to read.

He leaned in towards her ear. “What are you thinking?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Karen.” He pressed his hand over hers, holding it in place. “Tell me.”

“Just…” She briefly closed her eyes. “Thinking about how much it cost. To get here.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by that. “We’re…here now?” he offered. It came out like a question.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Her hands came up around his neck and she kissed him again, harder, like that would distract him from noticing the way she was trembling slightly. Was it terrible to be relieved that, despite how confident she seemed, she was nervous, too?

He steered them towards the bed until she was on her back and he was kneeling between her legs. There was one tiny blessing from not having his senses: her worn, cotton comforter actually felt soft.

She, however, wrinkled her nose. “Next time, we’re doing this at your place.”

 _Next time_. Grinning, ran his hands over her body, delighting in how smooth her skin was and searching for all the places that made a flush spread across her pale skin, over her cheeks and down her chest. Still, it was trickier to know for sure without actually hearing her heart, so he focused on each breath from between her lips and the subtle ways she either shied away from or pressed into his hands. And he tried not to get too distracted by the relentless way her hands explored him, venturing downwards until a shock of pleasure made his grip on her shoulders tighten.

She hissed through her teeth.

His hands sprang apart. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just…” Her eyes fluttered closed. “Everything’s, um, really _intense_.”

Even without his senses, he couldn’t disagree. He plunged his hands into her golden hair, streaming out across the pillows, and felt her whole body shiver in response. Wanting to see that happen again, he slid down her body, slipping his fingers between her legs.

“Mmph.” She squirmed backwards with a muffled sound. “Sorry,” she breathed out a second later. “Sorry, don’t stop, just…softer?”

A flash of something like shame or fear or _something_ twisted in his gut. He started to pull back.

“No—” Her hand caught his arm. “Hey.” She held his gaze. “Don’t overthink. Seriously, it’s okay.”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Uh…what feels good?”

“Like this.” She sat up enough to bring her hand down, showing him how to touch and stroke.

He followed her lead, all of his concentration zeroed in on matching her movements exactly, reminding himself that just because he couldn’t feel everything he kept expecting to feel didn’t mean _she_ wasn’t sensing it all in minute detail. He was rewarded with a tiny moan as she dropped her head back onto the pillows again.

When he finally trusted himself enough to maintain a rhythm with less laser focus, he stole a glance up at her, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

“Okay,” she panted. “Matt—need you—”

The desperation in her voice drove down deep inside him, filling him both with pride and with an equal need to satisfy her. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out every other sound, as she lined them up to come together. Closing his eyes for just a second, he sheathed himself inside her until they were pressed together with nothing in between them. No secrets, no bitterness, not even space. He could finally feel the rapid beating of her heart—a faint and flimsy sensation compared to what it should be, but still _there_.

Opening his eyes, he looked down at her, marveling as her blush deepened. He started moving, wanting more than anything to watch her come apart under him.

Instead, her forehead creased, almost like a wince.

He slowed down. “You okay?” he managed, voice rough.

She nodded quickly, eyes still tightly shut. “Yeah, yeah. Just…been a while, keep going.”

He hesitated, but he knew better by now than to ask yet again if she was sure. So he did as instructed, focusing on keeping as much of his attention as possible on her rather than on himself—despite the pleasure currently building in him. A second later, her hand clenched in his hair when she tentatively rocked her body along with his, and he tensed.

 _Don’t overthink_ , she kept saying.

It felt reckless, but he shut his eyes. After all, he generally knew what he was doing in this area, and he’d always managed fine without sight. He was less confident without his senses, sure, but still. Of course, consciously trying not to think was easier said than done, but he tried to focus on what he could feel, muted though everything still seemed. He concentrated on warmth and pressure, chasing what sensation he could find, relying on past experience telling him that what felt good to him would feel good to her.

But she flinched. “Ow! Matt, too much, _stop_ —”

He froze, eyes snapping open. “What?”

She trembled beneath him. “Can we…” She shifted, and winced again. “Can we stop?”

His heart dropped and his stomach shriveled. Numbly, he pulled out.

She let out a long, uneven breath he hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Sorry, I’m sorry, that was just…” She flung her arm up to cover her eyes. “Too much.”

He carefully retreated to the other side of the bed. “Are you…are you hurt?”

She didn’t answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise things will get better. <3
> 
> MASSIVE shoutout to LadyMaigrey for helping me construct, dissect, and reconstruct this scene, and for otherwise joining me in overanalyzing fictional characters.


	8. Sick Day Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! Sorry it's been so long - this chapter was hard (I mean, it's pretty much them talking, or trying to talk, or failing at talking, and I still don't love how it turned out tbh), and then I got super distracted with another fic. But. Ta-da.

Matt

His heart pounded in his ears. He felt exposed and raw, hunched over his knees on the other side of the bed, battling too many emotions to count. He wanted to comfort her, but was terrified to touch her. “Karen,” he said weakly, because he had to say _something_ , couldn’t just sit there in that awful silence, “I’m so—”

Taking a deep breath, she slowly sat up. “I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

Why was _she_ apologizing? “I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, trying to explain himself, trying to figure out how it had all gone so horribly wrong. “I thought—”

“It’s okay.” Pushing her hair out of her face, she let out another shaky breath. “It only hurt a little, it’s just…it’s all kinda…”

He wasn’t listening anymore. _It only hurt a little_ meant it _had_ hurt. He’d hurt her. And for all he knew, _a little_ was a lie thrown in for his benefit. He had no way to know the truth, not right now.

“ _Matt_.”

He blinked. Between his own tumultuous thoughts and his numbed senses, he hadn’t realized she was moving until she’d crawled across the bed to stop right in front of him. He flinched at her sudden nearness and had to actively resist the urge to grab blankets to cover himself.

“I’m okay,” she repeated clearly, blue eyes wide and serious.

“But…” None of this made sense. What was he not understanding? “But you said…”

Her hand grabbed one of his, squeezing. “Matt, listen, it’s _fine_. It just…it was too much, and it hurt a little, but I’m fine. I’m not, like, injured. All right?”

Not injured. That was the best she could say: _not injured_.

Something of his thoughts must’ve showed on her face, because she sighed deeply and seemed to gather her patience. Then she sat back on her knees, arms folded protectively across her chest. “When you’re done arguing with me in your head…”

He wanted to look away, avoid her gaze, but without his senses, he was too reliant on her expression and body language to tell him what she was even thinking. “I don’t want to argue with you, but I don’t…” He trailed off.

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t what?”

There was no way to ask this without sounding pathetic, but he had to. “What _happened?_ We were—I mean, I didn’t want to—or, I wasn’t sure, but you said to keep going, so I didn’t—I don’t—I don’t understand,” he finished helplessly.

She looked equally confused. “What?”

He tried to get his thoughts in order, only to immediately shy away from saying any of what he was thinking out loud. “Look, maybe we…we moved too fast, here.” He started shuffling awkwardly down towards the foot of the bed. “We don’t have to—”

“Wait, _Matt._ ” She snatched his hand again, and he couldn’t actually bring himself to pull away. “Can we just—can we _talk_ about this? Please?”

That was the last thing he wanted, but he couldn’t exactly say no. If he somehow hadn’t entirely ruined his chances with her already, refusing to talk would be the nail in the coffin. Still, he stayed perched at the very edge of the bed instead of running out the door. He risked a glance at her over his shoulder, needing to see her face.

Her eyes were large, her forehead creased. Not unlike the cartoon images of disconsolate puppies he’d seen as a kid. He instantly wanted to make sure she never had a reason to look like that again.

“Maybe you’re right,” she began. “Maybe we moved too fast. But that doesn’t mean we have to stop.”

“And if I hurt you again?” he asked bitterly.

“Well, I don’t know, it might not be that bad next time.”

He winced. “It’s not supposed to be bad at _all_.”

Her eyes dropped away from him. “No, I mean…there’s always some, you know…adjusting. Necessary. But. That’s not a problem.” She bit her lip, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I just have to, um…tell you sooner.”

He stared at her, not comprehending. “What?”

She shrugged uncomfortably, still keeping her eyes averted. “I could’ve—should’ve,” she corrected herself. “I should’ve…told you sooner. That it didn’t feel good. But I didn’t want us to stop.”

He suddenly had about a thousand questions, but he didn’t want to ask any of them until he was sure she was done explaining.

“And I know telling you something doesn’t feel good doesn’t mean we’d _have_ to stop, just…adjust, like I said. But I didn’t…” She paused, looking like she was searching very hard for words and rejecting everything she thought of. In the end, she didn’t even finish her sentence, starting over instead. “I mean, since I’m not used to the senses, I thought maybe it would start to feel better eventually. Like, maybe I’d get used to it? I don’t know. So I just wanted to keep trying. But then it was too much, and I lost control, and everything…” She kept her face aimed towards her knees. “It all came rushing in, and I felt _everything_ , and it just…it was too much,” she repeated in something like a mumble.

“I…I asked you,” he said, feeling exactly like his feet had been knocked out from under him. “I asked if you were okay. You said you were.”

She bit down harder on her lip. “I was, um, _trying_ to be okay.”

“Karen…” He didn’t know what else to say, too busy trying to deal with the abrupt change from feeling like he’d done something unforgivable to feeling vaguely like he’d been…set up to fail?

Unintentionally, maybe, but still.

“I know,” she said quickly. “I’m really sorry.”

“But…” He rubbed his thumb over his knuckles, just shy of forming a fist, trying not to sound agitated. “I can’t read you, so how am I supposed to know if—”

She hugged herself tighter. “No, I know, I should’ve told you. I’m really sorry, Matt. It was stupid, I just…” Her eyes darted up to meet his, letting him see the full range of emotion there. Not that he could interpret it. “I wanted this to work. And I…I didn’t want to be the reason we had to stop.”

Oh.

Her expression darkened. “Not when I was the reason it took so long for us to get here in the first place.”

Wait, what? She really thought that? “You were never the reason,” he said flatly. “I was the one who was keeping secrets and pushing you away.”

“ _Until_ you stopped doing all those things,” she countered. “But I was still so stubborn—”

“Look, it doesn’t matter.” It really didn’t; the past was the past. “What matters is, there’s no way we can do this if I can’t know for sure whether you’re okay.”

On the one hand, he did not appreciate the sudden role-reversal of lecturing someone else about honesty. On the other, it was almost relief to have such a ready-made reason to not try this again. He didn’t have to go back and forth in his head about whether they should, and he didn’t have to field her arguments. (Or, worse, her questions.)

“I know,” she said, voice faint. “It won’t happen again.”

But now she both sounded and looked like she thought _she’d_ done something unforgivable, which…that wasn’t what Matt wanted, not at all. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to reassure her. He belatedly ran through the explanation she’d given for why she hadn’t been honest in the first place.

“Karen?” he began cautiously.

“Yeah?”

“Why _shouldn’t_ you be the reason we stop?”

She nervously twisted a strand of hair around her fingers. “What do you mean?”

He tried not to feel guilty over the fact that if he was at all the man he wanted to be, he really shouldn’t have to explain this to her. “I mean…if you’re not enjoying it, there’s no point. Of course we should stop.”

She blinked up at him. After a moment, she breathed, “You really mean that.”

She could _hear_ his heartbeat; she knew he was telling the truth. But she still sounded _surprised_. His chest tightened. “Karen, if I’ve _ever_ made you feel like—”

“Not you,” she interrupted hurriedly. “I never—you’re selfless to a fault, Matt, I didn’t actually think you’d—it’s more, just…” She picked at a loose thread of her comforter. “Other experiences. You know? And…and probably shit I’ve internalized through the years. And it’s embarrassing, and, just…I don’t know.” She closed her eyes. “I _know_ you’re not like that. It’s just…hard to feel it, sometimes. In the middle of everything. But that’s not your fault. That’s…a me problem.”

“It’s not your fault either,” he said firmly.

“I didn’t say it was,” she countered, opening her eyes again, startlingly blue, “but it’s still a problem.”

“How can I…” He stopped to reword his question without making assumptions. “Is there anything I can do to help? With that?”

Tilting her head, she regarded him for what felt like a long time. “You,” she decided at last, “can keep being yourself. And _I_ will trust you to keep being yourself. And eventually…” She pressed her lips together in a tiny grimace. “Well, maybe it’ll actually sink in.”

“We could wait, then,” he offered hesitantly—hopefully.

But she shook her head again. “No, I just need to get over myself and, y’know, actually tell you what’s going on. I can do that.” She nodded once, as if to herself, then lifted her chin and finally uncurled herself from the tight ball, taking a deep breath. “Let’s try again?”

“Uh…” His heart started beating a little faster, and he caught a hint of her knowing smile before she tucked it away.

“We’ll go slow,” she reminded him. “We can do this. I trust us.”

And he really wasn’t surprised. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time she’d let anything stand in the way of what she wanted. It was one of his favorite things about her.

And it wasn’t like he could never relate. Just…at best, he overcomplicated things. At worst, he ruined the very thing he wanted so badly.

“Matt?” she asked as the silence dragged out between them.

He didn’t know what to say. “I want it to be good for you,” he hedged.

“I know you do,” she assured him. “But, I mean, practice makes perfect, right?”

He didn’t say anything.

She laughed a little ruefully. “In hindsight, it was kind of stupid to expect we’d get it completely right first time, wasn’t it? Especially with our senses swapped. Of course it’ll take some work.” She leaned closer, golden hair falling forward over her shoulders. “So let’s try again.”

He recoiled instinctively. “Karen, _no_.”

She froze.

He instantly wished he could take it back. “Sorry—sorry, I didn’t mean—” Tentatively, he reached towards her. “You’re right, let’s try again. I’m being stupid.”

She let him set his hand on her arm, let him slide his hand up and over her shoulder to settle in the crook of her neck, but she pulled back by a fraction when he tried to kiss her. “Wait.”

He really couldn’t do anything right. He tried to ignore the frustration building, clawing up through his chest. Sitting back, he let out a sharp, heavy exhale that did little to actually make him feel better.

But her voice was calm when she asked, “Why did you say no?”

“What?”

“Just now. Why did you say no?”

He shook his head. “Forget it. You’re right, I just—I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s not important.”

“I think it’s kinda important.” Her head tilted to the side. “I’m not saying you don’t wanna do this. And by all means, let’s _do_ this. But only _after_ you tell me what’s wrong. Okay? Because…something is definitely wrong.”

He was what was wrong. As usual.

When he didn’t respond, she narrowed her eyes for a second, then sighed. But, to his relief and mild bafflement, she edged closer until they were touching shoulders to hips to thighs. “Remember,” she said more softly, “I still can’t read your mind.”

He clenched his jaw. “Sorry. Sorry, I just…”

“Do you even _want_ to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Of course I—” He broke off, realizing that the answer to her question would probably be easier to know once he actually knew _what_ was wrong. “I want to be able to tell you,” he said instead.

Her lips parted. “Why would you not be able to tell me?”

“That’s not what I meant.” He closed his eyes. “I just mean…” He had to stop holding back, no matter how disappointed she was in him. “I don’t _know_ what’s wrong, all right?”

“Oh,” she said, very quietly.

“Sorry, I just—”

“You don’t need to apologize for that.” Then, to his utter shock, she rested her cheek on his shoulder, smooth and warm. “We’ll figure it out together. Just…can you try this? Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me what thoughts are cycling through your head right now.”

He laughed darkly. “You don’t want to hear it.”

“Bullshit,” she said lightly. “Did I not _just say_ I wanted to figure this out with you?”

“But…” He trailed off.

“I mean,” she went on slowly, “we just established that I need to be honest with you, even when it’s embarrassing or something. So…” She kept her cheek on his shoulder, soft, but her voice hardened. “If you only want to be with me when you think you’ve got yourself all figured out, then sorry, I’m not interested. I want _you_ , Matt, not some…idealized version of you that you’ve got in your head and might never reach anyway.”

He blinked, rubbing at the back of his neck. “…That’s, uh, a little harsh, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “Don’t be dishonest with me to protect me.”

Dropping his hand from the back of his neck, he clenched it.

She reached across him, resting her open hand lightly over his fist. “It’s okay. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

“…I hurt you.”

She settled against his shoulder again. “Okay, yeah, it…didn’t feel great,” she admitted, voice quiet and careful. “But it wasn’t your fault. It was mine, because I didn’t tell you, and I won’t do that again. And I mean it when I say I want to try again. So…?”

A single word rose to his lips, but it was too pathetic to say out loud.

Her hand still over his started playing with his fingers, uncurling them from a fist. “You wanna say something.”

“What?”

“Your breathing changed.”

He let out a ragged laugh that died a moment later. “Yeah, that’s…yeah.” He thought, maybe, when he was done being frustrated and humiliated, that he might actually be thankful that she had his senses right now. For better or worse, it certainly made it harder for him to keep things back.

She kept playing with his hand. “I’ll wait.”

His stomach flipped, which kind of seemed like an odd reaction to so simple a phrase, but…how was he supposed to focus on figuring out what to say, how to say it, and whether to say it, when she kept being so much more patient than he deserved?

He breathed in, then exhaled the one word he was keeping back. “Why?”

“Hmm?” she asked in his ear.

“Why. That’s what I was going to say,” he admitted. “ _Why_ would you want to try again?”


End file.
